


Möbius

by Albrecht_Starkarm



Category: Bubblegum Crisis
Genre: Blow Jobs, Celebrity Crush, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, F/F, Futanari, Hair-pulling, Latex, Music, Mutual Masturbation, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 18:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10254770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albrecht_Starkarm/pseuds/Albrecht_Starkarm
Summary: Girl meets girl.Celebrity worship meets girlcock.More after these words from our sponsor, TheCutestLunLun.A commissioned work for TheCutestLunLun, whose zeal for futa cock should probably be immortalized in the Smithsonian.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCutestLunLun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCutestLunLun/gifts).



Nene's art was something that no musician and no painter and no sculptor from any generation would have recognized, would even have understood. She knew that. Knew that most eyes wouldn't have any real purchase on it; knew that no mind probably would even have snapped to the word _art_. It was something subtle, idiosyncratic. It was private and solipsistic and something profoundly navel-gazing. It was still _art_.

Art because the mathematics were teased and twisted and ultimately _sculpted_ with a wisdom that was her own and not at all. It was like any true artist's. Not for anyone else's consumption at all. If they didn't see it, well, that was just _their_ problem. The math was hard; not its complexity, however jumbled and elusive it would've been for even the most intuitive mathematician. It was hard because it cohered into something not just palpable through the electron threads that stitched themselves into the mind's dreamy turbid jumble of thought and desire and what they animated in their union but _tangible_.

They were there. She could put her hands on them, twist them, brush her fingers over the cold crystal shapes they fashioned. Because, like any sculptor with the finest marble, there was a bliss for the imperfection. The word _perfect_ didn't mean shit there. Nothing meant anything but the undulating coiling strands that would be snatched up like _dorodango_ and hammered together 'til they blinded a fantastical eye at a glance.

Music pulsated through it. She knew the band. _Priss and The Replicants_. Of course it'd be one of their albums. Underground, samizdat, archaic coiled magnetic stripes still something more delicious on their ear in its soft little sibilant flaws than any of the processed better-living-through-chemistry sound that the acoustic laboratories and their plastic musicians churned out. It was love; love at first note.

Hot.

Hard-edged.

Priss' voice wasn't the syrupy mealy _shit_ that'd been cooked in some Genom Entertainment music lab 'til it twanged with an overwrought overdone fiction that was just _mush_ like potatoes boiled 'til they disintegrated under a steamy breath.

Priss spoke, screamed, roared, howled, _shrieked_ into the mic; or sometimes it was achingly soft, so delicate and so fine that it would have fallen through a sieve that could catch muons like a grain of sand through a tear huge enough to admit a Soviet submarine.

A hurricane tonight. It wasn't just to listen. It was to _live_ it. Let its essence steep her thought's every granule. Eyes closed. Or at least, they were _probably_ closed. The neural link was something that tossed the body away into a distant abstraction. She _could_ feel it; well enough, anyway, to have some distant inkling of where she was, _what_ she was, maybe if someone was skulking behind her with venom or something immeasurably worse.

The truth was that it was almost an act of astral projection. She'd read about it, lurking on the dot-superstition threads or whatever, _Lady Camellia_ , that was her pseudonym, just huddled around the great cybernetic campfire and savoring the lathering nonsense. The surrogate telepathy that betrayed a paranoia and a psychosis and just a stupidity and an inspiration, too, that was nothing Genom and its intellectual autocracy could inflict.

It was comforting for her to know that. That whatever the plastic serenity slapped in a great cohesive skein across everything, it was only the crust that lay over Yellowstone's burbling acid springs whose great cauldrons could melt flesh and bone and denature blood into a satiny mist with the snap of a breath.

And maybe that was what the network was for Nene, for the others whose lives were the stultifying _nothing_ 's denial.

And then an alarm slapped at her ears.

It was there; always, always forever there, even while fingers fashioned from code that had become the soul twisted out and externalized and given form teased and warped other mathematics into something impossible, something that nature could never generate. A rarefied and glorious thing like a black camellia. It'd been brought into being without life's antecedent; there was no birth.

Could be no death, either.

It was the möbius. A ribbon without beginning or end, tumbling through the infinite. Perspective deformed itself; what was before was suddenly behind and behind was before and the eyes blurred and trembled and it was almost, almost, _almost_ there. A sapphire thread; it was being pulled through the geometric twist.

So close.

And it came. Or rather, it _went_ . Less with the wind and more something that was less elegant than a fart rattling in her ear. Deeper than that. The alarm. Eyes irised open with reality's sharp _shock_. It was already eight in the morning. And the universe poured through her eightieth-floor window; light tarnished with the city's vaporous mist glommed across every shape, tore their figures through Nene's eyes.

It was an ordeal even to blink. Blinking meant a fleeting relief and then the simple tedium in seeing _it_ . Priss and The Replicants still throbbed through her ears, but the spell was broken like a vile sorcery. 'cause she was on-shift in an hour. And that meant staggering away from her repose like some lovely reclining odalisque on her ridiculous twin bed shoehorned into a garden of thrumming electronics. Their voice called out to her. Servers and interrupters and signal bouncers and interceptors and extenders and _everything_.

At least five or six months' salary as one of the AD Police's crackers, hackers, _operators_ . One of their digital hatchetmen. Hatchetwomen. Whichever. A sigh trembled through her belly, flat and still a little shapeless with what was more a paucity of muscle than any real _fat_. Exercise wasn't exactly a priority.

And now the yawn shuddered through her. Fingers interlaced, nails newly brushed with a glossy sheen more brilliant than even her hair's flamboyant fuchsia, tousled and plunging down in a sweat-matted heap across her left shoulder. A trembling dewy point that wasn't so much fat as morbidly obese distended itself in a long thinning seam from her left brow in an evanescent scar across her cheek.

Puddled in her collarbone. She wasn't naked; not quite. Panties that'd become almost painfully sodden with the mind's peregrinations. Because it wasn't only the möbius that ate her mind, that gnawed and gnashed and snapped. 'cause she'd _seen_ Priss of Priss and The Replicants.

Well, not- not _seen-_ _**seen** _ . But it was close enough. Slapped across her wall, a purified delight in the eyes that shone rich and scarlet with the ultra-limited-edition poster that she'd, well, it wasn't exactly _guilt_. All right, there was a little guilt.

She'd struggled and slithered and scrutinized and _aspired_ to something sincere. And it was still absolutely hopeless. 'cause the queue was about, oh, only three _thousand_ other fanatics long who'd learned about Priss when Nene was still just some nerdoid teenybopper bobbling along to Honey-Honey. They'd bought five or six or _seven_ albums with the queue codes.

And Nene? She could barely scrounge up even _one_ . 'cause even the _album_ was limited-edition. Not Genom's moronic consumer artificiality, the Veblen bullshit they fabricated to persuade legions of idiots to slap down their cred for tens or hundreds or even _thousands_ of essentially interchangeable shit. This was a real samizdat operation.

And that meant _seriously_ limited wares. Hawked from streetcorners and the Right Hucksters that you needed to know. And for an album like _Red Hot Death Machine_ , you _**needed** _ to know the Right Hucksters. Nene'd needed to fawn and preen and mince and let her eyes grow huge and quiver with greasy tears and even _then_ it was only for the luxury in reprogramming the grimy douche's security net.

But she'd finally gotten it.

And, well... There was an unredeemed queue ticket. And she was gonna _lose_. But it was a passage into the network. With the neural integration, that electron universe wasn't only some distant abstraction, a lonely seashore glimpsed from afar.

It was to plunge _into_ the ocean; to dive with a nonchalant grace into the deep pelagic like some rarefied sea life and to _be_ there. To feast and to thrive. So she'd wriggled and swum, less a fish amongst fish and more only a droplet of water in the sea.

And tears had burbled up into her eyes.

 _Authentic_ tears.

And a tantrum that strained a discipline she'd sedulously nurtured along four years as Professor Babchenko's teaching-assistant-slash-punching bag hadn't _quite_ flowered out in a fist-and-foot flurry that could've ground those throbbing machines into silicon dust.

Her code wasn't even in the upper _two hundred_.

Wasn't even in the upper _nine hundred_.

One-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty.

She was number one-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty in the queue. That'd mean that one-thousand-six-hundred-and-forty-nine _other_ Replicans, oh, it was fuckin' mortifying, wasn't it, and she still tattooed herself, her _icon_ , with that sainted appellation, that religious devotion, would need to say, _Nah, not today_ , or at least succumb to the most statistically implausible constellation of accidents in the human race's history for her to have first crack at _that_.

The poster that she probably could've tossed out onto some auction grid, still pristine in its packaging, for about a year's rent.

Maybe a _decade_ 's for the right fetishist.

But it wouldn't've been right. In Nene's apartment, not quite a hyper-efficiency matchbox and still not exactly what anyone'd expect to find seeking out a luxuriant urban manse, it was there. Adorning the wall beside her mattress.

It'd occurred to her that it would be _delicious_ to plant it on the ceiling.

But, no, no.

Yes, peering up into Priss' mesmerizing eyes, well, that would be her passage to slumber. But _how_ could she? Dreams, maybe, but maybe she'd be shackled to it, unwilling even to blink. So it lay along a wall, flawless in its seamless stripe across the cold pallid plaster. Nene'd even ordered the walls _scoured_ for the privilege.

Yeah, she'd cradled those antic fingers around the selection node's plasticine cheeks, whispered an incantation that'd slackened its grasp on the raw math. That'd laced Nene's ticket code into the _first_.

And what a delirious coincidence.

_You mean, **I** won? Oh, I- I can't believe it! _

Other Replicans had probably coveted her blood.

Who _cared_?

'cause Priss was the latex-and-bitch-heel princess dragged from groveling dreams and fantasies that cramped her fingers so ferociously it was a minor miracle she could even fumble with the adorable AD Police uniform's pearl-lite buttons.

Long achingly fine fingers slathered with deep burgundy latex that Nene could feel with some succulent vicarious fantasy twisted around the mic. It was a publicity photo; obviously. I mean, _clearly_ . 'cause the Replicants, those dinguses that, ah, _clearly_ were just her fellow bandmates, whatever that bitch _PrissLover666_ said about her in that shitty fanfiction she wrote, they weren't there.

Only Priss. Lips plump and vivid with carnation gloss that stood out in an erotic enormity that was almost superhuman, almost supernatural, against her perfect skin flooded with sweat. Or at least water _like_ sweat, 'cause it was nothing like the bootleg concert vids she'd scanned.

No fucking way.

Priss _did_ sweat. Prolifically. Some delicious slick Nene's tongue would've not just gladly daubed away but she- she would've groveled and sobbed and _besought_ Mistress Princess Queen Goddess _whatever_ Priss just for the luxury in tasting one. Little. Mote.

A heavy chest almost blasted up out of her carmine bustier that Nene could _hear_ in its sweet rubber groan. And she stood there, a negative silhouette against the stage's protean shapes, long long long legs shod in six-inch hooker boots that she exalted into an empress' vestments with the belt skirt that didn't exactly invite the imagination and that was just a need for _more_ imagination.

To hell with the prepackaged porno shit.

For Nene, _this_ was desire's guise.

It just wasn't fair. She'd never seen her live. Never _once_.

And now there was about fifty-five minutes for Nene's morning rite. Tugging away the sweat-blackened undershirt and just steeping in the swelter that wreathed the one-bedroom's plastic reprocessed air redolent only of one fine point of humanity stitched into a great computerized canvas. It was a software factory's perfume; it was a clean room's essence.

There would be synthcaf, yeah, about fifteen minutes from splintering the stillness with its rich pungent focus-grouped-workshopped _likeness_ of coffee's earthy aromas.

But, otherwise?

It was Nene's sweat.

Something heavier, also. Luxuriant. Treacly. Thighs splayed apart not with, well, her _mom_ would've whined at her about how indecent it was. With a bare chest. Yeah. 'cause that was just purity personified. Heavy; soft. A palm settling on her left breast, and then wending serpentine to the right. They were pretty.

Weren't they? Skin like bleached alabaster someone had whitewashed and then daubed with ceruse. It was immaculate; she'd heard _that_ more than once. Not cadaverous; not with a sallow sense of the grave but only a colorless elegance, a canvas pleading to be painted. Hair like neon raspberry tumbled down, the native heft dampened and finally just _imploded_ in the warmth the machinery kicked off, scattered around her.

It was something erotic. Not quite a balmy breeze wafting over succulent skin preening on platinum sands, but close enough, wasn't it?

That was her life.

Priss wasn't here. But the poster in Priss' hot stare was _close enough_ . While fingers seamed her right breast, clawed deep furrows. They were _large_. A generous self-satisfaction when Nene's eyes flitted to the mirror's cold luster. One lay on the opposite wall while she just sat there, one foot planted on the stubbly perfunctory carpet and another thrown over the tangled bedding with a sole against the wall.

Adorable tiny toes with her hair's glittering hues.

She was beautiful. It wasn't the craving for anyone's praise but Priss'. She'd heard it. From more than one girlfriend. And Nene was just content to admire the candid _figure_ . The trim belly and the slender waist's elegant taper and the hips' gentle flare slipping down, and down, and down along legs that weren't quite Priss', not exactly enough for three or four women, but sure as hell more than enough for just _Nene_ . They distorted any inkling of her height; they would've just been _average_ , photogenic, for a six-foot model. And Nene was barely pushing five-four. Hair flooded in shades of Superfund Site, plastered to her shoulders, trailing off to the small of her back; artificial, fine, but it was _her_ chemical beauty.

And nothing else was.

Hand-filling breasts that coaxed the word _tits_ from Nene's lips.

Tits.

Titties.

They were. Pert and deliciously upturned; a fullness that she could almost persuade herself might be Priss'. Her knees' creamy roundness.

Her back's lunging arch.

A _squeak_ from Nene's lips dewy with _exactly_ the hue that Replicanmeanyday had told her she'd deduced from the publicity photos.

It wasn't a Genom brand. _French_. It was French.

The kiss Nene's mouth craved. Implored.

 _Rouge mortel_.

 _Oui_.

Nipples a hue darker, large and thick and puckered now in their gradation from creamy soft tits to tawny areolae.

A _squeeze_.

Priss stood there. Perfectly still. But the eyes were almost an ubiquitous gaze. Yes.

Yes.

And it didn't matter. 'cause Priss _was_ there. A hot breath wafting over Nene's nape; long fine fingers in glistening blood-red latex brushed through her hair, tugging it away. Hands falling down, and down, and down.

“Ahn... Priss. Yeah. Priss.” It was ridiculous.

Or at least, it'd felt ridiculous the first... Six or seven times?

But it wasn't now. Nene snatching up a pair of gloves in the same heavy groaning latex that maybe didn't coil up arms that weren't quite soft and formless but sure as hell weren't Priss' in their lean hard athleticism. The hems bit into slim wrists. The sensation was enough.

Cool and warming on Nene's skin.

“Y-yeah. Priss. Priss. Touch me. Touch me. I'm yours, y'know? Do _anything_ you want with me. C'mon. C'mon. E-even _that_! However you want it!” Lurking behind her. A quick _nip_ at her left nipple; a hand flattened across Nene's belly, and slipping down, down, down.

Teasing around feathery hair that crested voluptuous lips Nene could only admire like some demented vertical smile. _They_ were pretty.

_Ngn... Nene, you have such a **pretty** pussy, you know? _

“Priss. Yes. I... I'm so happy. So happy you think so. You like girls with a little hair there, huh?” It was a rarefied bit of candor.

Her _natural_ hue.

Something almost peachy, a pallid auburn craning to blonde and stark against skin that shone with a twinkling bronze. More than wet. She was only _wet_ a few hours ago. It was to be _drenched_. And still, still, fuck being late this morning.

Bracketing them with fingers strained apart.

Closing...

Closing...

And the first little _taste_ and...

“What the _**fuck**_?!” That was legitimate rage. 'cause it was the apartment's vid-phone. And, well, this wasn't exactly the wardrobe that invited the _vid_. Planted on one of the walls, squawking its idiot song like a brain-damage parrot. Nene staggered upright on legs like rubber melting into meaningless gelid wreckage. Scrabbling with bare feet, stumbling, shambling, maundering through the labyrinthine heaped electronics.

The city's brilliance had metastasized, hot and merciless. Global warming had long stopped being something that only happened to other people. Its harvest crashed through the smog-snarled corridors that stooped in huddled gloomy repose in the sky-rupturing towers' great hubristic shadows. And here, on the eightieth floor, the morning's effulgence trembled in an endlessly reaching hungry invasion across every _inch_.

It was...

“ _What_?” Eight-twenty-nine. This just wasn't wasn't wasn't _wasn't_ fair. Snapping up the receiver; it'd kill the camera. Voice converged with voice. “Uh, this- this's Romanova-”

“Neneeeeeeeee.” Long, trembling, _trilling_.

Miyuki.

It wasn't that there was any real _animus_ in it. More the snarling opprobrium _any_ fox would reserve for the adorable wolf that'd interrupted her meal.

'cause Miyuki _was_ more than a little wolfish.

“Uh, h-hey, Miyuki- _chan_.” The voice didn't belong to the face; the face _very_ much belonged to the body. She was, well...

Whatever Nene's fantastical fidelity to Priss, Priss was a distant delectable abstraction.

And Miyuki was _built_ . And with a sexual appetite, fuck, an _esurience_ , that would've bestowed on her an equatorial waistline if it'd been for anything less wholesome. Long and delicious and _curvaceous_ ; more a constellation of sumptuous sinuations than anything that spoke of an inconvenient skeleton. Spine arching like a terminal case of achingly photogenic scoliosis; succulent legs and curvaceous thighs and tight calves and hair spilling in anthracite effusion over a gravure model's tits.

 _Those_ were titties.

Eyes twinkling with that perpetual mischievous hunger.

And the unreality in her _also_ being Nene's height. Even if she could distort Nene's tee-shirts like a rhinoceros in a sweater vest.

“Why're you blocking me with the vid-phone?” Well...

“Are you at the office?”

“Uh, _yuh_. We were _both_ s'posed to be in the office by eight.” Waitaminute. That was...

It was Wednesday, wasn't it?

Not _Tuesday_. Or Thursday.

“It's not Tuesday, is it?”

“Nope. _Wednesday_.” Damn, she was chirruping it. “So, what is it? Late night? Hangover?”

“Uh, I just...” Fuck, at least a hangover woulda been an _excuse_. “Just kinda forgot-”

“Don't worry. I'm coverin' for ya.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I told Chief Todo that you had the _worst_ flu, but you'd probably be back in, I mean, _maybe_ tomorrow. Even got Naoko to corroborate it.”

“What'd ya hafta do to get _her_ to lie to Chief Todo?”

“Told her I'd introduce her to my brother.”

“Uh, you don't _have_ a brother, Miyuki-”

“I've got a good friend with a good body who wouldn't mind _calling_ himself my brother. 'sides, Naoko's cute.”

“You're sick. You know that, right?”

“So, what're ya wearin'?” Nene just let her back slump against the wall. Cool; not the sharp seething bitterness that was almost like planting your bare fingers on a soldering iron.

“Seriously, Miyuki?” It was, well, a little sententious. Even while rich hot hues strained through Nene's cheeks like a bubblegum cauldron.

“Humor me.”

“Nothing.”

“Ngn... Really? Not a _shred_? How 'bout those sexy gloves you always use to go to town when you're, like, _creamin_ ' over that red-hot-”

“I told you that in _confidence_.” Hissing down the line like a demented cobra. “Miyuki- _chan_ , c'mon-”

“Oooh. Ya get all _whiny_ when people talk about yer precious Priss-”

“That's...” It was maybe a little true.

“You're doing it, right?”

“Do you have _time_ to be annoying me like this?”

“Um, I'm in the bathroom, actually. Using my mobile. And I _do_ , like, totally have the time. The AD Police Force Employee Conduct Manual-”

“Fourteenth edition-”

“Grants all ADP members generous fifteen-minute bathroom breaks _in addition_ to their usual fifteen-minute breaks and _apart_ from the mandated forty-five-minute lunch break no fewer than four times during an eight-hour shift.”

“You're wasting your pee break on me?”

“Who said I'm wastin' it? C'mon. Lemme _seeee_.” It was a coo. A legitimate coo. Trilling down the line. The receiver was something distant, almost a numb abstraction through the thick gloves.

“Uh- _uh_ -”

“I _refuse_ to waste my pee break on you, Romanova. Make it worth my while. I totally _covered_ for that sweet ass.” Miyuki's voice'd dipped from that dizzyingly ridiculous and vapid bubbling to something, well, _authentic_. A sultry slap on Nene's right ear.

“I-”

“'sides, there's somethin' else.”

“Uh? What?”

“Well, _I_ ain't tellin' that sweet ass-”

“Sweet ass? Seriously?”

“I thought it tasted like _honey_. An' it feels like wet silk when I pump it.” Jesus, she was wicked. One of modern technology's authentic blisses. Those easy-on-easy-off cybernetics, as noncommittal as a high school romance; nerves stitched into electron counterfeits, savoring through those fantastical figments in robotic simulacrum the flesh's... Well, maybe not its authenticity.

But close enough.

Pumping.

Lunging.

Miyuki's fingers tangled in hair tousled and almost matted with sweat. Steeping in Miyuki's little efficiency and with _Mad Minute Waltz_ on the stereo and... Well, that achingly savage lupine smile tugging open Miyuki's luscious lips.

_Hey, how 'bout we try?..._

_You already love it when I eatcha out there, right? So?..._

So why not?

Screeching with a banshee's shrill psychosis and who the hell cared? 'cause it was fucking _incredible_.

“M-Miyuki-”

“I'm serious. Lemme _see_. An' then I'll tell ya. And then I'll do something even _nicer_ if you. Obey. _Me_.” Oh, this was... Was almost its own reward. Not that Nene'd ever tip _that_ hand. The jubilation in the command's savage crack on every nerve.

A shiver down her spine.

A tremor melting her legs to underset aspic.

“O-okay, Miyuki, I mean... If you're gonna _whine_ and bargain and beg-”

“I _love_ those cute little titties.” Nene'd forgive Miyuki for _that_. Luscious as they were, generous C-cups-going-on-D weren't even in Miyuki's buxom universe.

A finger brushed on the _video_ key. And there she was. Candy-apple cheeks and fingers curtained in those thick menacing gauntlets. And Miyuki, peering down at her with a fish-eyed distortion that was definitely at least a little creepy.

Leering.

That wolfish lust. And it _was_ the bathroom; obviously. Miyuki's skirt unfastened; obvious in the crisp blouse's furrowing.

“Miyuki, are you-”

“Oh, _yeah_ , I am. I mean... I was gonna ask you to the bathroom _anyway_ for our, like, _mutual_ break or whatever. A half-hour. Enough to have a _real_ snack.” This was just unfair. “You're _so_ fuckin' hot, y'know, Nene?

“Those nasty-big titties, forget what I said before, that just- just look so _big_ on your cute lil' body.”

“What about _yours_?” Those were nasty-big. Those were _ridiculous_ titties.

“Yeah, well... Can't exactly take out the cannons right here. Lemme watch _you_. Just keep goin'. Step back away so I can watch. Maybe even put in the _Ooooh, Priss_ es!” Oh, that was legitimately diabolic. Tossing _that_ back at her like a razor-littered water balloon. Liquor slackened Nene's tongue like a screwdriver did a bolt.

“Fuck you.” With a garter snake's venom.

“ _Maybe_ tonight. Show me. Showmeshowmeshowmeshowme-”

“Ok _ay_.” So she did. Slowly, patiently. Miyuki's fingers something ostentatious in their caresses. Miyuki's wasn't a delicate technique; a quick sodden _squelch_ announced her destination reached. Lurid red lips tightening; flesh straining on high bones. Vast eyes like faceted obsidian; well-plucked brows that were still almost oversized, a _likeness_ of masculinity that only heaved the femininity into deeper relief.

Hair artfully brushed over her cheeks.

“You- you're pretty impatient, Miyu- _chan_ -”

“'cause I'm super-fuckin'-wet. That's why. You can hear it, right?” She could. Plunging into a gelatin ocean. Sputtering; straining. And now Nene, well, why shouldn't she just explore?

Heft one of her breasts in a palm. Let it flower out, fill her hand; fingers dimpled the succulent skin.

And another easing down, down, down. Knees stained pink with a flush that sprawled in a deliciously pink curtain across pallid skin.

“Look at _that_. I'm _so_ fuckin' glad I went for the GenoPhone 3000 with the ultra-high-definition screen.” There was no answer.

None.

“Ngn... I wanna tell you what to do, Nene. I'll be your Priss-”

“That's- that's just...” It wasn't nearly _enough_. But it was delectable. With Miyuki's voice plunging to that register that was a voice marinaded in whiskey and hazed with a six-pack-a-day habit. It was flintier than just _husky_ , though.

Sharp-edged chert.

“C'mon, Nene- _chan_ , I want you to _touch_ yourself. Really, really, _really_ touch yourself. Pull those sweet little nipples.” Fuck whether Priss'd ever let those words slip her lips. 'cause Nene could feel it.

Priss there.

Behind her.

A voyeur's enthusiasm, eyes needling at her shoulders. Spearing through the flesh and biting deeper than any touch.

“O-okay.” Nene's voice a tortured little breath aspiring to speech. And so she did. Fastening a nipple between her thumb and forefinger. A tug; a squeeze; electricity became a fat and trembling worm, writhing up every nerve. Eyes narrowed in a squint that was destined to be ridiculous and denied in it the sweat-matted candor that was sexual perfection.

A beauty in her native habitat, wallowing in visceral vital hungers.

“Ngn... Both of 'em, Nene- _chan_.”

“I- I don't even know if Priss's Japanese-”

“Screw that. You just _obey_ me, Nene- _chan_ , or I'm gonna belt you across the ass 'til you _squeal_. Hey!” Epiphany. “I think you _should_ do that. Show me that pretty ass and smack it 'til it turns _red_.” Oh, this was...

Was _very_ evil.

So Nene did. A half-pirouette, quick and still unhurried. A palm _hurtling_ down with a meteor's violent crunch and it was a sharp yelp's genesis. Dampened with the sweat, the latex a wicked flat breadth, it was something incredible.

And they weren't _Nene_ 's hands. Not in that delirious fever-dream haze. Uh- _uh_. Miyuki's. Or Priss'. Or both.

And so there wasn't that knowledge that dimmed the pain, that shackled it to the body's own neurotic restraint, its conviction, its agency, never to wound itself. It came with a relentless hot frenzy. Once, and again, and again. Snapping down; Nene's arm wasn't even her own, drawn with an out-of-body ease in vast plunging strokes longer than the universe's endless arc.

It mantled up every nerve now. Robbed her of breath; settled with a tingling anguish in her belly. She couldn't stop.

Miyuki's fingers splashing through those hot honeyed waters.

“A-ah, ah, oh, _fuck_. I- I had a date last night-”

“I saw you with that girl-”

“She had the _biggest_ cock I've ever seen. I mean, like, _elephant_ big.”

“S-shit. She had one?” What did it matter anymore? Cybernetics? Onanism? Priss and Miyuki and even Nene... Someone had tossed them into a blender and snapped it to _frappé_.

They were juiced together. Swarmed around one another in a vast whirl.

“Yeah. It was fuckin' _awesome_. I put in a tampon and the jizz is _still_ pouring out of me today. Hear that? It's _mostly_ still her. It's so goddamn sweet, too. She had the Panama Model with- with, like, the _piña colada_ flavor? I must've sucked her off about four times 'til she almost broke my jaw.

“Now, _beeeend_ over, sweetie. Y'think Priss would have a dick?”

Who cared?

“Maybe she does right _now_. Spread your thighs for me.” This was just depraved. And Nene couldn't swallow it back anymore. The white-hot ferocity behind her eyes that'd begun to mist her sight with vast simmering arabesques. Palms clamped on her thighs; slipping them apart, velveteen soles a delicate whisper on the carpeting.

“That's such a _good_ girl. I wanna see it. Your cute little butt. Well, not _little_. You've got the biggest ass I've _ever_ seen on such a tiny girl-”

“Uh- _uh_. Yours is _way_ huger, Miyuki- _chan_ -”

“Who's Miyuki?” That was _wicked_. Fingers bit into what Miyuki would only have likened to an overripe peach. Begging to be touched, devoured. “You, uh, ready _there_ -”

“Uh-uh. I didn't really, uh, play with myself there-”

“I wanted to fuck that delicious ass again. I bet you'd let _Priss_ fuck your ass.”

Nene'd let Priss drink her eyes frozen in vodka.

“I'd make her _prepare_ me first-”

“It's better when you're screaming.”

“Freak.”

“Uh, _duh_.” It was true. “I wanna pull your hair. I wanna watch your big ass jiggle when I slap my hips on it. I want you to howl my fuckin' _name_.” It was, well, the words _too much_ lay along a distant horizon she'd forgotten thirty years ago.

And that would be in ten birthdays or so.

“At _least_ touch those sweet soft lips. They look like they taste like sugared honey.” Oh, they _did_. “Ngn... Touch yourself, Nene- _chaaan_.” It was just irresistible. A sudden urgent _spasm_ the instant those sleek drenched gloves whispered over what felt like nothing more than oiled grease smeared on lips that'd swollen with a rich _red_ desire.

Redder than Miyuki's mouth's luscious seam.

“Yes. Yes. I...” Orgasm's violent shock with the faintest graze. And growing, and growing, and growing. Not a wave crashing and melting across a craggy seashore and then just _vanishing_ into piteous whimpering threads but a rushing tide.

Higher.

Higher. She was wallowing, _drowning_ in it. Letting it invade every inch. Fingers lacing deeper, deeper.

“Ngn... That's _so_ fuckin' amazing, Nene. I wanna see. I wanna see _deep_.” It wasn't exactly gynecological.

It could've been.

Prising apart those lips and just _baring_ everything. Wet and sticky and _effulgent_. Fuchsia concentricities plunging deeper and deeper and deeper.

“Shit, shit, I totally fuckin' _came_ the second you did that.” With gloved fingers akimbo, forefingers and even the middle on her left hand twisting and writhing deeper, and deeper. Filling; _spreading_ ; splintering her.

“Ngn... I- I'm...” Bent; Nene's body a sinuate luscious ripple, a standing-wave elegance in long trembling legs, creamy skin disturbed with fine subdued muscle straining up into a crazed relief. Jaws working with inarticulate babbling nothing.

It frothed out; drooled down Nene's chin.

'cause Priss was there. The poster, but what did it matter? It'd been animated in her febrile hysterical lust. Fingers tangled, plunged, _pumped_.

Cock or hands or... Or what did it matter?

 _Filled_ her to bursting.

Strained out with those coils' sudden convulsion. Impaled her again.

“I- I'm coming... Coming so fucking _hard_!” Nene's voice a tortured shriek. Dipping down to a darker register than anyone but probably Miyuki had heard and then shattered like metal riven open with diamond claws. “I can't...

“I... _Fuck_!” Cheeks smeared with a garnet stain that raced over her like blood-slopping ink wash. “Holy _shit_.”

Coming.

Again.

Rocking against her palms; clamoring for _anyone_ 's hands on her body.

And...

“I- oh, _fuck_ , my break's almost over.” Wha?

Who?

Who _cared_?

“I- I'm coming. Again. Again! Shit, Miyu- _chyaaan_ -”

“I- I can't... You're not fair, are ya, Nene?” Hands; hands. Fingers. Hunger. Lust. Vast wheeling baroque patterns like scrawling Persian knotwork through her eyes.

“I can't take it. I want it. W-would you come over and dump work and just _bang_ me, Miyuki-”

“Shit, I wish I could.” But that was a skirt being dragged up, wasn't it? The camera's dead eye falling on nothing, even while Nene still shuddered and capered in that lush nude candor. “But, um, I... I've got a _great_ gift for ya-”

“More than this?”

“Chickie, this was a great gift for _me_ , too. I mean... That was _so_ fucking wild.” Nene's fingers still dragged in long syrupy strokes between her thighs. The receiver tugged from its cradle again, _clapped_ against those less than articulate lips that still spoke their hunger much, much, much more sincerely than anything else.

“You're goddamn _evil_ , Nene-”

“Come here and fuck my brains out.”

“I've got a ticket for ya.”

Who cared?

“Priss and The Replicants' show at _Hot Legs_.” Whuh? “I mean, y'know, I woulda given you the ticket, _anyway_ , but this was _so_ much more fun.” Didn't shrivel that lust.

But it...

“I really think I'm falling for you, Miyuki-”

“Hey, I'm not a girl to tie down. Unless you use jute.” Naughty. “I'll send it over. I, um... I don't know if I can make it over tonight, but I'll be _sure_ you get it. 'cause the concert's this evening at nine. Gonna be there-”

“Even if I _was_ dying, I'd be there.” Oh, wasn't this a delirious ambivalent jumble? Whether to gorge herself on Priss with that navel-gazing selfishness or devote every instant to rewarding Miyuki for the beneficence?

There was no ambivalence in _Hot Legs_. There wasn't a cover; not for one of the sainted with their ticket, not quite a private concert but you sure as hell were guaranteed to be bounced without it by one of the scowling 'roided-up chromed bastards whose faced were traced with vast scrawling patchwork scars.

Sure, at least half of them were probably the surgeon's graceful caresses consecrated with whatever chemistry would send those heavy ragged ridges splintering through the skin that'd been coarsened with acid and manufactured rusticity.

But the arms were immense; thicker than a tank's cannon. Chests that should probably have become unique geologic measures. And the ambiance, well, it was the **infamous** _Hot Legs_. Seething with sweat. Steeping in lust. It wasn't that _everyone_ was beautiful.

Well, it almost was. Maybe. And Nene still wasn't receding away into the invisible, some wilting little wallflower who was barely even equipped to taste the stone around her shoulders. It wasn't that there was exactly a _leg_ fetish there; it was an everything fetish. Latex and leather and the sleek tight better-living-through-chemistry sartorial; gauzy and opaque and rich with a raw infernal brilliance that competed with the dreamy neon and ground shoulders and brushed bodies against the sweat that stained every inch in the swelter.

It wasn't even a conscious conjuration. There _was_ AC that could probably have cooled a neutron bomb. But _that_ amount of flesh crammed onto the floor whose acreage was at least enough for a hundred and strained with about twice that could only simmer. And it did. The warm-up were barely anything, some banal neo-funk-pop-jazz- _whatever_ ensemble whose coked-out leader's huge delirious eyes had been sucked into pupils that could've accommodated distant universes. They were straining through the last few uneasy strains of _Superfreak_ when the lights finally imploded.

She'd been there since about seven-thirty. It was obvious _why_ , also. Sensible to obey Miyuki's voice, a wry little rap on the knuckles.

_Chickie, you'll thank me if you get there, like, **way** early. 'cause standing-room-only doesn't really describe the place when it gets packed. And you're gonna wanna be on the floor, right? Close enough to Priss almost to **touch** , right? _

Fuck, _yes_.

 _Fuck_ , yes.

_Fuck, yes._

So Nene'd dressed. Patiently, at about five, drifting through the most delicious, the most entrancing. Tossing out the _too_ slutty; the _too_ demure; the _too_ ... Shit, was that even hers? Settled finally on something that was probably what everyone _else_ wouldn't be wearing.

Her uniform.

Sorta.

The glasses that were worn only by prescription and only for scrutinizing the figures that scrawled and cavorted across the computer's cold face; something about as modern, as sensible, as differential equations on an abacus. But the AD Police were obdurately anachronistic.

That, and, well, the tech department had maybe a more reasoned compunction about permitting their agents to 'jack into the systems when everything would've been lain bare. It still gnawed at her. It was an invitation to her career's yawning somnambulating tedium; just drifting through the letters in their abstractions. Fingers a deft darting grace on the keyboard from anyone else's vantage but the keyboard alone set it into an epileptic tortoise's grace beside the elegant pirouette with the mind liberated from the flesh.

The glasses were largely something needless. Very, very, _very_ trivially presbyopic, but being crammed into their cubicles that were delicious luxury beside virtually every other department had made it painfully necessary.

But they _were_ adorable. Broad circular lenses tucked into fragile little frames that sat with a weightless ease on a fine slender nose. The mirror had whispered something intoxicating to her. She'd felt it: A hot stab in her heart. That thoughtless affirmation that's just... Hell, almost _celestial_. Speaking to her with a voice whose hot clarity was roiling oil poured into an ear.

It just _was_. Yes.

The glasses.

Her blouse and a pencil skirt that was less fabric and more simply _painted_ onto lush curvaceous hips; a hem that bit into shapely thighs smeared with tawny fabric that settled in a tight soft skein across creamy skin. High high _high_ heels.

Not the jacket. _That_ 'd be a little hard to explain to the AD Police office about why exactly the RFID badge was tracked to a club that was the object of at least a few weekly reports. Assault and battery. Agg assault. D&D, and not the game. Impersonating a police officer. Indecent exposure.

And, well, there _was_ Nene, wasn't there?

 _Contributing to the delinquency of a public employee and law-enforcement agent_.

'cause she was, ah, the word wasn't quite _wasted_.

Wasted was a half-hour and two gin-and-lime Collins before that. She was certifiably shitfaced with a giddy idiot enthusiasm. Even the tortured toneless top-heavy chick was delicious, grinding out _Superfreak_ 's less than mesmeric lyrics into the mic less cradled and more fellated while she bounced the melody with a metronomic exuberance totally indifferent to its real rhythm.

Anything.

Everything.

A slam-dance symphony while the punks pogo'd and the dissolute office ladies wheeled and heaved and, well, the _authentic_ Priss enthusiasts, the legitimate Replicans who announced their fundamentalism in absolutely nothing but an ineffable aura that Nene's delirious eyes could still recognize with a sense of tribal comity, they _crushed_ onto the floor. Nene'd staked out a swath that vacillated with stilettos' quick silent click and her long long legs' sway and wheel and it was war's essence. Driven from it and invading anew; a merciless tug-o'-war with another _achingly_ geeky beauty whose glasses were only the most succulent embellishment to an apple-cheeked elegance, plump chest boisterously _exploding_ like a new mountain range's birth through... Oh, it was latex. Ruby latex. Like Priss' bustier. And everything was Priss but the hair.

Tall; soaring over Nene. The word wasn't quite vertiginous but damn if she wasn't about two or three inches from challenging its primacy and there was only ambivalence: The lavish perfumed softness in her tits' dusky tremor and quaver, gelatin at about seven on the Richter scale, but Nene was still courting _that_ morsel of Paradise for at least the ensuing few hours.

So shoulders ground against the chick's ribs and her chest plastered itself on Nene's skin and there was even the awareness in a few fleeting little grazes; a long lingering _clap_ on Nene's ass and a saw-toothed little smile and now the dumbasses had mantled the stage, the crowd-surfing assholes and the jerkoffs pleading for some little kiss of reflected low-wattage celebrity in just being _seen_ beside...

What the hell were they?

The chick was probably destined to a Genom Records success story. Naturally alluring and she'd still be twisted and teased into that exalted plastic perfection. 'cause Nene could see it: The faint little defects that were beauty's essence, the graceful little flaws that cast every other delectation into heavier harder relief. A modest overbite and a mole they'd probably efface from under a hot dreamy black eye and the hair was at least punk- _poseur_ neon malachite and they'd definitely expunge that.

And those tits wouldn't exactly be diminished but there was a tiny kiss of natural fat, tight and lush and erotic, adorning the belly; it was a stain that the image manufacturers would never take, so they'd lipo that away for another morsel of the unattainable and the ridiculous.

But at least she had the lungs to _scream_.

From _Superfreak_ to a some twentieth-century protest piece the cosseted suburban chick'd probably never quite _gotten_.

But Nene knew.

The guys in patrol blared it from the stereo whenever they sent out one of their anti-Boomer units. A psycho-punk dirge for the masked cannon fodder destined to be collecting their hazard pay in the netherworld.

 _Police Truck_.

_**Riiiide, riiiide, how we riiiiiiide!** _

And Nene found herself roaring the lyrics, throat raw, the Priss enthusiast beside her snapping herself through the one-woman show with her own bellow and, hell, why not a duet? Nothing like a harmony; they were almost tone-deaf, but not as shitty as the beauty monopolizing the stage. Her band would be tossed. Unremarkable.

Toss them a bit of cred so they wouldn't gab to the gossip pages about how she banged them backstage in some squalid Tokyo club.

And now, now, the stage lights had just _imploded_. Again. And permanently.

Mid-verse.

The last tortured tinny twanging bits of _Police Truck_ melting away into the gloom; the chick's voice tracing out the lyrics' vestiges like dishwater gurgling down the drain, almost plaintive.

_Ride, ride, how we riiiide... Let's ride, loo-hooow ride._

Nene felt it.

It was ridiculous, wasn't it?

And her eyes still drifted to the beauty that'd probably absolutely _dwarf_ Nene. It didn't matter, though. That giddy jubilation mantling up their faces. Priss wouldn't even _be_ there yet, probably, but it was still the faint tremor that, well, it wasn't _quite_ that moment while her sixth-grade girlfriend's fingers had cradled Nene's cheeks, while hot skin had fallen against hot skin swamped with sweat, tucked in that tiny basement bedroom while her parents' dumbass movie throbbed through the floor that was their ceiling and... And they drifted together. Willows twisting in warm fragrant wind.

But it was _near enough_ , wasn't it?

“This your first time?” And the chick was there. First time? “Seein' Priss live, I mean? It's- it's a total rush, y'know? She's even _better_ than on the cassettes.” Well, _duh_. The chick's voice was like Nene's: Raw from the screaming altercation with the music's insurmountable hugeness.

The warm-up act were clattering off the stage.

It was so fucking _close_.

“I'm Lucy.”

“Nene.” Shoulders brushed together; both sodden with sweat in the haze pungent and perfumed with countless bodies. Well, maybe not _uncountably_ many, but who cared? Lucy's a wafting fruit aroma; something achingly chemical and still adorable. Strawberry, wasn't it?

Nene's more natural. A legitimate _eau de parfum_ that she'd misted into her hair; rich with vanilla, orange, a pastry shop of sensual delirium that'd enchanted her and tore a _vast_ stripe through her account.

It didn't matter.

It was an erotic flourish that'd coaxed more than one nymph closer; an enchantress' incantation.

“I- I've never seen Priss live, no-”

“It's _so_ amazing. Seriously. She's got so much energy, y'know? Hey, who'd you hafta sell your soul to for the ticket?” Laughter, husky and dark and writhing through Nene's ears.

“My best friend.”

“Well, at least she'll be gentle with it.”

“And you?”

“I just got _lucky_. I knew somebody at the ticket office; they told me when they were goin' on-sale, and I got in line _right_ at the right time.”

“Lucky's right.” And now, _now_ , well...

It was there.

That _instant_.

A frisson like Madame Guillotine's kiss on the nape of the neck. A tremor through the audience. It was more than just _gravity_ ; it was jitterbugging on an event horizon. Everyone felt it. Even the punks that'd been comfortably solipsistic, dwelling in their own parallel drugged-out 'chipped-up universes had slumped into a perfected quietude.

A _hush_. That was what it was. The assholes on the upper tiers, the balcony whose bulk jutted out like a pouting dilettante's truculent lip, ruptured what would've been supreme awe; glasses chimed, tinkled, speech's distant murmuring. But even that had begun to recede. A tension cinched its savage taloned fingers around Nene's heart.

Oh, oh, _oh_.

A satiny carbon dioxide mist whispered on her cheeks. It was something that could only snap its hot tendrils around every nerve and tension them 'til they trembled with their own twanging song. Relief that incontinence wasn't a family inconvenience. There would already have been a vast black-ice puddle gathering on the floor.

Eyes flitted to Lucy. An inkling of her silhouette in a proud nose and cool white sclera etched out against the lights' dregs still dribbling from the maudlin neon twisting out its fingers from the exit signs and the balcony.

“This's so exciting.” Nene's voice a taut squeal. Yes, a legitimate squeal.

“Tell me about it. It never gets _any_ less exciting.” Oh, that wasn't fair. Lucy _had_ savored the privilege, huh? What did it matter. It was just...

There.

It wasn't the house lights. A gathering warmth dawning slowly, slowly, from behind the stage; Priss stood at the center, absolutely still, unassailably graceful. _Poised_. Luscious statuary. And the laser lights had begun. Firm threads stabbing out, stitching into the dry-ice haze, the sweet wet aroma perfumed with something elusive and ineffably treacly.

The guitar's first note. The drums' graceful patter. A rattle that reared up like a firing squad's cadence. And then the guitar's warble sluiced away. Silence but for Nene's own heart hammering through her chest.

It was something weird. Surreal.

Lasers pricked the coalescing fog, turbid, fragrant with sweat and with... It was _Priss_ , wasn't it? A scent rolling from the stage. Clean feminine perspiration and her hot skin and, well, _her_ . It wasn't exactly perfume. It also wasn't _not_. Olfactory ambivalence. The spotlight curdled around skin one or two grades deeper than Nene's.

She was _incredible_ . Larger-than-life. It slapped at Nene's eyes. Tall; incredibly, deliriously tall. Probably six-two in the towering black stilettos, groaning gleaming patent leather; cuffs rose up, bled into tight stockings like gauzy pitch woven around legs that were, well, _perfect_ . Voluptuous; sleek calves and round thighs and a palpable strength, rearing up through the almost perfunctory skirt whose twinkling latex band was dewy anthracite; a naked belly brandishing an elegant seam carved through a body that was _pleading_ to be bared. Delicious breasts blossoming from a bustier that melted off into the darkness against her complexion.

And the blonde hair that swept in its enchantingly cheap feathered _hugeness_ to her shoulders. The light ran red; bloody, Biblical.

And scarlet lips slipped closer to the mic that was cradled in hands that had haunted Nene's every fantasy, swaddled in the latex that _was_ Priss' essence. Chiseled obsidian kneaded 'til it twisted in straining rubber around every inch.

It was pure theatrical elegance.

And the first notes struck up again.

 _A Hurricane_.

That was enough. Wild, mad; the speakers were a sonic gale, tortured and shrieking while Priss' voice rose, and rose, and rose, and the audience were hounds snapping impotently at an elusive fox, forever cantering away from hungry jaws. Just another inch; another; another. Husky and like a flint cyclone, whorling through Nene's ears.

This was...

Was the most incredible gift _anyone_ had ever conferred on her.

Her own life included.

Arms upraised; twisting and wheeling with Lucy. There wasn't competition now. Maybe the congenial challenges in piety between the petty novitiates but they were in _divinity_ 's hot presence now. Belly not just fluttering with butterflies but with a fucking _colony_ of them.

 _Mouthing_ the lyrics; this wasn't just some amateur whose voice was a triviality. It was Priss'. Even while hers tolled out, soaring but never warped and definitely never _manufactured_ through the electronics, well, how could they not just listen?

Piece, after piece, after piece. Priss' skin swarmed with sweat that gleamed with a sanguine and diabolic edge in the light that became a loom for the lasers' hot twisting strands. Raspberry and tangerine and lime and... And every _other_ flavor. Glow-wands throbbed with a sickly phosphorescence in their distant awareness.

But it was only Priss.

And it wasn't only a cold self-assured apathy, either. No stage-divers and invaders and sure as hell no crowd-surfing but a gauntleted hand would be outstretched, swept out at them. She was near enough to _touch_.

More than once.

Nene's blouse had, well, to say it was _undone_ would've exaggerated just how much of the fabric was still attached to her skin. It'd almost been shrugged off; a perfunctory bit of black lace separated Priss from an invitation to a bit of fruitless breastfeeding. Not that Nene would've minded.

God, no.

Eyes craned up to regard Priss with that unpretentious and candid awe that was an act of some sublime sacrilege. God may have died for a material culture, but there was a goddess _here_ . Incarnate in flesh, sinuous hips tracing a swaying quick stroke left and right and right and left with immaculate rhythm, she _was_ a reason for Belief.

And Nene _Believed_.

Hands upraised. It was something that seethed with the musty tent revival; she was being _Saaaved_ , full-capitals, full-bore. This was her Faith, and _Hot Legs_ was her Vatican, and this... This was being in the presence of The Lady.

So there was something impossible in a hand outstretched at _her_.

Stirring the soupy thick cloud that'd gathered in its enormity more, and more, and more. Not to penalize the miserable bastards that'd been crammed into the most delirious purgatory, no, no, but just for the ambiance that rose higher and higher and higher to _Paradise_.

And the hand swept out again.

Was it?...

“Hey, hey, what're you doin'? Don't _ignore_ her, Nene!” It was, well, it was _gracious_ for Lucy; the whisper could probably have deafened a slab of granite at any _other_ moment, but it was some strange subdued murmur for Nene now. “She always takes somebody on-stage with her during one of her concerts! It's you!

“Don't make her think you don't _like_ her!”

“Y-you're serious? Really?” It was an authentic squeak. Lucy's eyes infernal with jealousy; but _only_ jealousy. It was every True Believer's conviction _their_ time would come, wasn't it? It couldn't be envy.

“Yeah! Do it! Do it! Just... Here's my card, 'kay?” Tucking a slim chip into Nene's palm. “Let's meet up after!”

“Yeah!” And it was... Rising. Levitating.

Nene only needed a winged horse.

Priss' gloved fingers, long and fine and _firm_. An obvious and intense strength rippling through Priss' arm. Obviously powerful. _Everything_. A delicious scent that was, well, was _Priss_ pouring from her. And it wasn't The End.

It was _near_ The End. Ah, it wasn't fair, was it? Silence; that fleeting bit of quietude Nene had _heard_ from the chicks on the fan board.

“Hi! Thank you so much for coming to my show. I'm Priss.” Uh, _duh_ , but... But it was a weird duality; Priss' voice in its fullest richness _away_ from its hard squall through the speakers.

Wow, they were _loud_ here.

And she was even more incredible. The eyes shone almost vermillion; infernal and definitely enough to have Nene reflecting quite sincerely about exactly whether Satanism was right for _her_ if that was Priss' home.

No.

She'd already have an altar to the Father of Lies if that were true.

“I love getting to know my audience. Do you like the show?” And she was just... Just _so_ self-assured. Perfectly languid. Conversational.

How could she be _conversational_? Nene was _with_ Priss; Priss _was_ Priss.

“I- I... Yes.” The microphone outstretched at her. An adder with fangs ferocious and brandished. “I- I love it so much.”

_I love you!_

Those were the words in their fullest candor.

Well, not _only_ those.

More than a few that would've been unrepeatable 'til the... It must've been after the watershed. Right? Who fuckin' cared?

“I dunno. I know the guys have been _great_ tonight, but I don't think I deserve that much praise-”

“You've been amazing, Priss! You're even better _live_ than on your records. I have _all_ of them.” Nene was gushing. Well, no. Blood gushed; wells gushed.

This was a dam opened with a hydrogen bomb.

“I don't think I deserve that. But I'll still take your word for it.” That _poise_. “Would you like to stay up here, Nene?”

“Yes!”

“Okay! Let's start it up! _Mad Machine_!” And that was just... She was there. Priss _writhing_ beside her. Not just some meaningless bystander but _with_ her. Twisting together. Priss' hip grazing hers; Nene's skirt against Priss' and _skin_ against skin. Even her fingers twisting with Nene's for the slow syrupy pieces.

Arm tangled with hers.

And through the half-blinding mist, Lucy was there, a long thumbs-up, ungrudging, a perfect equanimity. Nene, well... It was desperately selfish, but she hoped that Lucy would _never_ win. That Nene'd be the one _always_ to be chosen. But if _she_ couldn't be, well... Then no one else should.

But if _that_ couldn't be, then Lucy'd be a third she could reconcile herself with. Probably.

Nene's hair had plastered itself across her cheeks; spilled over her shoulders, sodden and brilliant with the light in its every twinkling convolution.

And her chest heaved. Priss had even dragged the microphone once or twice to _her_ lips, some wry little indulgence like urging a six-year-old to sip a bit of wine: Meaningless, harmless, something that could capture their imagination and, well, maybe even fuel a lifelong perversion.

Belting out the lyrics with absolutely unselfconscious intensity. What'd it even _matter_ how tone-deaf or perfect she might've been?

And then it was finished. Or, well...

That is, the _third_ encore was.

Priss' chest heaving with breath dragged deep in huge shuddering gasps. The drummer'd slumped over his kit; the guitarist's fingers had probably _bled_ with its intensity. And the audience wouldn't _ever_ be satisfied.

Sated, maybe?

But satisfied?

It was... It was as impossible as being satisfied with just _one_ gasp of breath. It was a lifetime addiction.

“So, what'd you think?” Oh, it wasn't fair. So long as those notes still trembled out through the throng, there was always the simple _denial_ that could prolong that instant through an eternity. But this was The End, wasn't it? Priss' voice hard and rasping a bit with the performance's ferocity.

It was incredible. There _was_ no complacency. She didn't throw so much as just _roar_ through it, rocket-propelled and implacable.

“It was... It's been the most _incredible_ night I've ever had, Priss. I- I know that sounds so totally lame, but it's true.” And now Nene was an esteemed Valley Girl. But it _was_ the truth. “I wish the concert was just _starting_.”

“I love it, too. My guys? I don't know if they'd be _that_ happy about it. That was a great set, Sakurai, Chito, Walker.” They'd already just shrugged it off.

Couldn't they appreciate the irresistible _sorcery_ in it?

In the aura that wreathed Priss?

She, well, she _was_ vertiginous. Soared over Nene, even with Nene's spearing bitch heels that were a bit of a trial for a comfortably flammable blood-alcohol. Peered down into her eyes with that lupine ferocity that was enough to melt Nene's knees like ice caressed with a crème brûlée torch.

“I- I'm just amazed. You're even _better_ live than on your albums. I've never heard _anything_ like that before. I- I'm just- just so seriously in awe of you. I always listen to your music. I- I have your limited-edition poster.”

“Oh, you do? I think they only made about five of those.”

 _Three_.

Three.

Three.

 _**Three** _.

Nene would've thrown a kitten down a well for the other two.

“I just- I'm an artist, too. Kinda? And- and you're my biggest inspiration, and...” And Nene was an idiot. Fine.

_And I love kittens, and puppies, and clouds that look like ice cream parfaits, and..._

And lapping ice cream from your fingers, Priss.

“Ngn. I'm not that great. Everybody can always get better.”

“ _That's_ why you're so great, Priss! Y-you, I mean, you're not satisfied just being _perfect_. You wanna be- be _perfecter_.” It was true, wasn't it?

Priss' smile a wry little quirk. Her lips were, well, they weren't _huge_ . Exactly. But luscious; a voluptuous bowed grace lustrous with gloss' thick luster that _oozed_ the light.

And Lucy was still there... Right?

Well, no. The audience had, ah, not _cleared_. They'd slackened; maundered off to the bar in a staggering afterglow haze.

“Is anyone waiting for you, Nene?” That was... Priss' lavishly glossed lips caressed the words. Oh so patiently. Slowly.

“Uh- w-whuh?”

“Like, ah, a boyfriend... A husband... Girlfriend or wife, maybe? Mom or dad?” Playful; a delirious little crook.

“N-no. No way. I, um, I... I'm totally alone.” Eyes narrowing; brows furrowing. “Why?”

“I just wondered if you might like a drink backstage with me.”

“S-seriously? Yes! Yes, I'd love that.” This must've been... Well, why not, right? Why not be _ingratiating_ with an audience member fanatical enough to purchase a ticket, and your albums, and be polite, and... And mince around with you on the stage?

And then _adulate_ you on the networks?

Right?

_My drink with Priiiiisssssss!_

Time's and geography's passage were something meaningless. There were, well, there were _halls_. Nene could've been interrogated for thirty hours and that's what would ultimately have been wrung from her.

_I'm pretty sure there were walls._

Tell us more, Nene!

_Ceilings? I'm gonna guess there were ceilings, too._

_Oh!_

Yes? This is _vital_ to national security-

_There must have been a floor, right?_

There was _Priss_. It wasn't only to be blinded but for every sense, every _faculty_ , to be monopolized; dimmed as they were, a dreamy drowsy delirium that sure as hell was no longer with the liquor that'd receded like a tide bottoming out across craggy shoals. It wasn't quite hard-edged sobriety or even that hangover that would probably be a _very_ legitimate rationale for her absence tomorrow, but it wasn't a drunk.

It was the lucid clarity to understand just _how little she understood_ _ **anything**_ _._

A door eased open.

 _Priss_ . Penned in a firm squared hand across a bit of tape slapped across the dressing room's faintly dingy star. But her name inflamed it with a gilded sublimity that was its own inexpressible luster. And at least the dressing room was _not_ dingy.

Beautiful. It was.

A faintly gaudy extravagance, but still extravagant. A bouquet, something modest and absolutely gorgeous: Peonies tucked into a humble glass vase, a pale puddle coiled around their tawny stems. Pink. Lavishly _astonishingly_ pink.

“I, um, is that from an admirer, Priss?”

“I think it's from my manager. I _love_ peonies. Don't you?” Nene's imagination had always tended toward roses.

Scarlet and hot and to be brushed on...

Ah-ah, well...

A generous ceiling; a spacious and still ultimately banal cube of a room. The floor a sharply geometric well-polished checkerboard pattern, and a broad vanity that peered with its essence into a vast mirror whose cool serene stare could only affirm the obvious: That Priss _clearly_ was the most beautiful.

Of all.

Of _anyone_.

Heels yielded a sharp _click_ on the tiles.

A mattress, huger than Nene's, was tucked against one of the walls; four-poster, curtains drawn back to bare that it'd clearly been flawlessly made.

“They- they supply a bed for you?”

“Ngn. My manager arranged it for me. I live pretty far from here. She's always trying to court me, you know? Get me to commit to a _bigger_ contract or something. _Living the good life_. So she has _my_ bed shipped around.

“The roadies hate me for it, I'm sure. Just another piece of equipment to cart around.”

“It's your bed?”

“Sorta? _She_ bought it for me. She's a little, ah... _Invested_. Maybe obsessive.” And now Priss was settling at the vanity's seat. A languid ease. Nene was exhausted from _admiring_ her; Priss had strained and roared and howled and swept herself with a nimble darting ease across the stage in those obscene heels and the only sense was that she was rested enough now for another fifty encores.

Another fifty _shows_.

“I- I think it's beautiful.” With a hue like fuchsia candyfloss.

“Thanks. I really love pink.”

“S-so do I! It's my favorite color. B-but, um, I love red, too, and, uh... B-black.” It was ridiculous.

Nene could feel it curdled in her throat. Dragged down in the planet's most prolonged and labored swallow without at least a little poison gas.

“Pink's one of my favorites. Red, well... I _do_ love red. Why don't you have a seat, Nene?”

A table had been set at the room's center, squared with a sharp absolute geometry and ringed with six seats.

A single bottle set at its core.

“I- I'm not interrupting anything, right?”

“Oh, the bottle? That's from the House. I guess they thought I'd be entertaining the band or something afterwards. _Those_ guys, they just wanna turn in after a long show like this. They're such nerds. But they're a good band, huh?”

“Amazing!” Nene was more than a little grateful for the chair's _firmness_ under her fingers. Sure and unequivocal.

And still clattering enough to raise a wince through her shoulders when it finally settled near enough to Priss to be _with_ her; still a reverential offset from the divinity that Nene could admire in multiplicity, splintering in fractal elegance through the mirror.

“You're so shy. Nene, right? Is, ah, is that your real name, or were you just a little timid about saying it to everyone?”

“Uh-uh. It's my real name. Nene Romanova.”

“Oh, you're Russian?” Priss' eyes drifted away from her reflection's _perfection_. Cradled Nene in those hot scarlet eyes.

They _were_ red.

Surreally.

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm... I don't know _what_ , exactly. Asagiri Priss. Or, well, Priss Asagiri. I don't use the Japanese style.”

“It's such an honor to meet you, you know, Priss? You're- you're my heroine-”

“I don't know if I deserve that.”

 _That humility_.

“You do! You're just... You feel _fearless_ , y'know? You just- you do your art, no matter _what_ anyone thinks. You won't sell out- and... And be boring and plastic just so Genom will promote your stuff.”

It was darkness.

A heavy black nimbus settling over Priss with that word; a fleeting little flicker like some mischievous dip in the light.

“Uh-uh. You're right, Nene. I _wouldn't_ sell out. I'm almost afraid of really _succeeding_ , even through another label. I don't want people to tell me how to sing, _what_ to sing. When to sing. _Where_. I love playing places like this.

“Meeting people like you.”

This could only have been a fantasy.

And Nene was pleading for _nothing_ , no inconvenient pinches or stabs or nuclear wars, to rupture it.

No tentacle beasts springing into a frolicking show-stopping Vegas number with the Pope and Gilda Radner's pelvis.

“That- that just sounds so amazing, you know? I wish I had your kinda talent, Priss.” Nene's heart not only about a half-second from stopping but already long since having paused in mid-throb and then shocked into vitality with Priss' electrifying aura.

She _blinded_.

And it was a childish compulsion finally to taste the joy in staring at the sun without blinking. It didn't matter what it would mean for _tomorrow_. Tomorrow was a senseless abstraction. The present was perfection _now_.

“You don't need to flatter me, y'know-”

“I- I'm not. I'm _really_ not. I think you're just- just _so_ incredible. I mean, um, I'm not exactly _president_ of your fan club, but that's just 'cause it's all politics, y'know?” How _adorable_ she was.

At least Priss had laughed; as sonorous as her voice in its every other quirk. Every word. Every note. Every _thing_.

“Thanks. I... I have a fan club?”

“You didn't know?”

“I guess I don't have a lot of free time. I'm always writing music, practicing... Doing other things.”

“Like what?”

“Every girl needs a secret, huh?” Priss' fingers settled in her hair's heavy thick blonde bulk. It was _vast_. Humongous. “Like this.” And, uh...

 _Lifted_ away.

“Whah?” It was, well, maybe not as surreal as Priss prising off her face to expose her mother's, but there was still something... Weird in it.

Even if there was still only a native unbroken beauty.

“I- I didn't know that wasn't your real hair. I mean...”

“Yeah. I guess, when it's got that huge feathered look, it's about as plastic as a wig.” Priss' long gloved fingers brushed through heavy satiny auburn plunging across shoulders that shimmered like damp oiled silk with the sweat's vestiges. “Whew. It's kinda hot, though. What do you think looks better?”

“You're- you're just so gorgeous, um, I- I dunno.” Priss' smile was something intense, eyes flitting to their corners to capture Nene in a sidelong little glance.

“You think so? I dunno-”

“Y-you seriously are. I- I have your poster on the wall over my bed. I mean...” That would be that perpetual flush like her hair's rich pink hue darkening to a sordid sunset across Nene's cheeks. “Ah, that...”

“Over your bed?”

“Y-yeah. It's...” Palms tumbling to Nene's lap. This was so fuckin' mortifying.

She was being an idiot.

Celeb crushes.

Celeb _worship_.

What was wrong with her?

“It's always nice to hear that my pretty fans keep me in their thoughts.” And that was... Ah, well... What _was_ that?

Darkening.

Deepening.

“Ah! I can't believe that I forgot _why_ I invited you here. For a drink, right? You're, uh, you're old enough, right?” That was just... Brutal. “I'm just kidding; I'm just kidding. _Hot Legs_ wouldn't have let you in unless you were.

“What do you do, anyway, Nene?” Nene.

Nene.

Just that conversational _ease_ . Priss standing. _Towering_. Long long legs and a long long stride bearing her to the table at the center with a quick finesse.

Fingers laced around the bottle's neck.

A faint little wince.

“Ah, this... These gloves make it a little hard-”

_Don't take 'em off!_

“I- I can open the bottle. If that's all right. What is it?”

“Mmm. It's an African Dream. I love it; the House here knows that I do. This's just about one of the _only_ parts of technology I love. You can just have this made-to-order in a bottle.” It wasn't really _anything_ , was it?

A simple lasered-on label, _Congratulations on another great show, Priss! Keep it comin'! - The House_

“I- wow. It's... It's really a privilege-”

“Oh, don't make me feel like a princess, Nene.”

She was more than that.

A queen.

A _goddess_.

Nene's fingers numb and struggling with the cork. It _was_ corked; not with anything that was the word's real essence, but wasn't that what the culture had become? Orders of simulacra. It was plastic, thick and foamy; probably molded _in_ the bottle. And there was still something lavish and _natural_ with liquor's rot the instant it _thunk_ ed out of the black neck.

“Wow, that's...” Mawkish. A treacly banana-sodden aroma; and something with citrus' faintest little kiss. Greasy and unctuous with cream. “I've never heard of this before, Priss. Um, can- can I call you-”

“If you _don't_ call me Priss, it'll be a little weird. I haven't heard _Miz Asagiri_ since my teachers were telling me to sit down and stop bothering them.” Laughter; that delectable laughter like stony feathers flitting over Nene's ears. “Would you like to pour me a glass?

“And one for yourself.”

“S-sure. I've never had it before. A- ah, um, an African Dream?”

“Yeah. It's pretty rich. I mean, it tastes more like _dessert_ than a cocktail, but that's the way I love it. Really, _really_ sweet.”

“I do, too. Seriously sweet.” The glasses dappled now with what seemed to be little more than banana-stained cocoa for Nene. “Wow, this's... Really thick.”

“Uh-huh.” A few fingers splashed into each. “Have a seat with me, all right? I think it's really wonderful that you were brave enough to just sing with me. Do you know how nervous _I_ was the first time I got in front of an audience?”

“I- I can't believe that. Really, Priss?” Please, please _, please_ , won't you laud me? It was a convulsion trembling through Nene's mind's less than lucid and limpid waters.

“Yeah. I was _terrified_. I, well, I was sick afterwards. You really belted it out, though.”

“Was it all right?”

“It was. Yeah. It was _wonderful_ to hear. You have an incredibly pretty voice.” Nene's heart was about a half-second from imploding into a black hole, swallowing her into its own delirious fever-dream universe and who could possibly aspire to care if _this_ would be one of her last moments?

Priss' lips settling with a shimmering grace around the glass' rim.

Sipping it as languidly as Nene had hers.

“Well?”

“S-sooo sweet. Wow. I think this's my new favorite drink. I love banana, too. An'... What else is it?”

“Marula. It's a fruit that elephants love. I've been to South Africa a few times. I've seen them freak out and just _hammer_ at this huge tree with rough bark until they tear off enough of the fruit to have a feast.”

“You've been to Africa?” _And_ she was cosmopolitan, and... And a traveler, and Nene was... Well...

“It's not _that_ far. Aren't you from Russia?”

“W-well, yeah. Um, Sakhalin, anyway.” Slowly, slowly, its sodden staining richness was stalking through Nene's cheeks; slipping with a grace like a fragrant breeze through layered silk into her body.

And more than that.

It wasn't the liqueur, was it?

“I've never been there before. Is it nice?”

“C-cold. In the winter. And, um... It's... There's... There's a lot of fish?”

“Am I making you nervous, Nene?”

Yes.

But gloriously.

“I'm just another girl, y'know?”

“I've just... I've been so...” Obsessed.

Infatuated.

 _Awed_.

“I've just- you're really one of my heroines, Priss. The music you make; how you really just- just say, _Screw you!_ , to everybody who tells you you can't do what you want. No rules.”

“Hah. That's... That's one way of looking at it.” With one of Priss' fine gloved fingers brushed at a cheek. “What do you do?”

Oh, wouldn't _that_ be a few metric tons of sodden wool thrown on everything?

But why lie?

“I, um, I work for the AD Police. I'm a computer specialist.”

“Really? You work with computers? And for the police? I just always had this idea that they'd be tubby old guys. You're so cute. I thought you might have been a dancer or a model or something.”

Speechless would be a flattering bit of euphemism for the dumbstruck silence that'd twisted its leathery parched noose around Nene's throat.

 _Dancer_?

 _Model_?

“I-I, um... Y-y-y'think so?” And that was a squeak.

“Yeah. You danced really well on-stage with me. I was a little afraid you'd _up_ stage me. Better than the guys; that's for damn sure.” That wasn't possible.

Was it?

Could Nene's fantastical ridiculous gooey _ambitions_ have actually converged with reality and not just been savagely vanquished with its cold hand?

“I... I don't think I could upstage you, Priss.” Nene's hands twisted around the glass. Shoulders crumpling down with her heart's immense gravity. “You're so beautiful. I- I dunno if anyone even noticed me-”

“ _I_ noticed you.” Electricity. A tribute to poise or maybe just _how_ frozen Nene was that the half-finished glass hadn't just clattered from her fingers. Priss had finished hers, let it settle with a graceful little _click_ onto the table.

And that was one of Priss' dazzlingly long legs _brushed_ against Nene's.

“I definitely noticed you.” The words more a breath on Nene's ears. Heard; still almost incomprehensible.

Could that be?

“U-um-”

“I think you noticed me, too, right? I had a _lot_ of fun dancing with you on-stage. I need to give a good show, but there are times when I'd love to just step back and be part of the fun, too. You get the _cutest_ blush, you know.”

Was it the cutest?

Ruby in her cheeks.

Priss had stood. Patiently, languidly, drifting with hips tracing a long slow sway. A dancer's ease. _She_ was a dancer. Clearly.

“I, uh... I don't want to sound presumptuous or anything, but do you like me, Nene? And not just that you like my music, or my personality, or...” This wasn't possible.

Was it?

Where was Gilda Radner's disembodied pelvis?

“Yes. I- I really do, Priss. I mean, y'know... Why else would I have your poster over my bed?” It was stupid, wasn't it? That agitation?

“I, um, I _do_ feel kind of... Kind of obligated to ask you if you _really_ don't, ah-”

“I- I really don't have a girlfriend. I mean, at _all_.” 'cause she was just _such_ a colossal nerd. “I- I mean...”

“What about a boyfriend?”

“Ew.” Wasn't that candid? “I- I just mean... Mean that I don't really like boys. Like, at _all_.” Standing. Slowly. 'cause Priss was. And there was still about a gulf huger than Sirte's separating their eyes. Priss _loomed_. Not with menace.

Just a wolf dwarfing a fox.

“Not at _all_?” Priss' fingers seeking Nene's. Questing. Lacing together. Nene finally felt it. The quivering slick electricity in it.

In the latex.

“Uh- _uh_.”

“Not any part of a boy?”

“W-well, I mean, y'know... I've never _been_ with a boy before, but... But I love _everything_ girls do. I- I'm really... Not, um, a... A cherry. At all.” Not that I'm a slut oh god please don't think that unless you _want_ me to be a slut then I'm the hugest sluttiest...

“You're _so_ beautiful. And pink _is_ my favorite color. Your hair. Your cheeks. Your lips.” Everything achingly deliciously _pink_.

“Uh-huh. I... I love red, too. Your eyes. I've never seen anyone with eyes that color.”

“No? I'm not surprised.” Slowly, slowly, a glacial patience, Priss' fingers easing up Nene's, less tangled and more just _captured_ , to her lips. A kiss _brushed_ on Nene's knuckles. Lingering on the pallid skin; even _that_ was stained with a bit of the flush's dappling shades.

“Ngn...” It wasn't _eloquent_. Language meant absolutely nothing. Nene's eyes were more articulate than any lips could aspire to be.

They spoke wordlessly; a vernacular that transcended any petty boundary in culture and humanity.

_Please!_

Another kiss. And another. Priss' lips deliriously patient. One brush, and again, and again. Tongue darting out to swipe at the satiny skin.

“P-Priss, Priss...”

“Yes?” The word was _felt_ , a sudden tremor through the flesh and twanging sinews and even the _blood_. It boiled with Priss; not only her voice, or her presence, or her- her _aura_ or anything that finite, that senselessly bounded.

It just _was_ Priss.

Her everything.

“Just... Priss. Wow. You're kissing my fingers.”

“It doesn't only need to be your fingers.” Nene should've snapped awake.

Should've been sodden with sweat and with something _wetter_ still inviting a securely miserable morning.

And there was Priss.

Still.

After a long moment.

After a breath. Two. Three. Four.

After Nene's lashes, a vast negative sunburst brushed with a tasteful bit of mascara, were dragged closed with a quiet whisper over her cheeks.

Priss was still there when they rose again.

And Nene, also, for that matter. Even if anything she could have called sense had long since sluiced from her ears.

One of Priss' hands slipping away from Nene's; those lush faintly blunted gloved fingertips steepled under Nene's chin, savoring the skin's sleek softness even through the rubber. Nene's face gracefully patiently urged up, up.

Eyes devoured eyes; a relentless cannibalism.

“P-Priss-”

“May I kiss you?”

“I'll cry if you don't.” The design was something glib and adorable; the reality was a bit nearer to the threat.

“I can't make a pretty girl cry, even if I _do_ think it'd be the cutest thing I've ever seen.”

“Don't be mean. At least not yet.” Closer, closer. Nene's heart simply _stilled_. A surreal epiphany. It should have been roaring through her chest and it _probably_ was; that was still meaningless. She felt nothing but every sense wrenched out, inverted, twisted from the flesh. Lips trembling.

Offered to Priss and taken without anything like compunction.

Slowly, slowly, a tease. Lips so brutally _close_ to Nene's. And not quite. Breath warm with the liquor and fragrant with something unplaceable and ineffable that was destined to haunt Nene for generations, still lurking there in its profound rich depth even when her brain was fit to be eaten with raisins and brown sugar and a bit of milk. Everything wreathed her.

Priss' eyes in their diabolic raw allure.

Closer.

A _graze_.

“Ngn...” And a _ngn_ from Nene; a bit of sonic ambivalence, guttural and so fucking high it was remarkable they weren't being lavished with a stray-dog serenade. Lips brushed on lips; a collision in the sticky and effulgent.

Nene's a candied fuchsia; Priss' almost blood's thick richness.

And both lacquered to a high-gloss that captured the chamber's warm light and swallowed it down and scattered it away again like diamond petals.

A sigh.

Nene's and Priss' lips lush, voluptuous; a whisper, a graze, like downy clouds in their collision.

“You're being mean.” Their voices had wilted to little more than breath, heavy and hot from chests heaving with _this_. With conjoined perfumes like tropical fronts; sweet and with a kiss of spice and feminine sweat's lather.

“I like to bully beautiful girls.”

“I kinda like being bullied.”

“Really? That's just perfect for me, then-”

“Especially by taller girls.”

Even _perfecter_.

Priss' fingers settling on Nene's shoulders; an awareness of shape, slender grace and still a _kiss_ of a wiry strength.

“I _love_ bullying shorter girls.” It was desire's consummation. A slow _squeeze_. Priss' strength ostentatiously overtaking Nene's. “I really do. Do you want me to bully you a little?”

“A _lot_.”

“Even better.” A kiss. Finally, finally, _finally_. Mouths slipping together; lips plush on lips. A glistening tangle together. Nene's spine limned a delicious boneless bow; Priss' body a sensual twist, dipping down, down, down. It wasn't that the height disparity vanished; it was _accentuated_ , adored, Nene's heels not only meaningless in their fictive asset but _dwarfed_ with Priss' own.

Gloved hands on Nene's cheeks now, warm with their flesh and cradling her.

“A-ah...” And finally, finally, sticky with the gloss, not cleanly _parting_ but lingering and drifting away from one another, peeled from each other, there was no longer a kiss.

And it was only an invitation to another.

Another.

Something _broken_. A thunderstroke without lightning; only electricity coiling and spattering between Nene's ears, racing along Priss' every nerve, also. The simple delirium in it. Kissing her; kissing her; kissing her.

Rougher. Priss' tongue teased along Nene's. It wasn't to jam it into her mouth, or for Nene's to lunge out with a relentless invasion, but only to levitate in that sumptuous neutral place between them. Musical little coos poured from Nene's throat, inarticulate and senseless.

A _growl_ from Priss.

“Priss, Priss, this's...” Tumbling, stumbling. Bullying or maybe just _devouring_ ; drifting, slowly, aimlessly, heels' sharp _click-click-click_ over the tiles muffled with the sexual psychosis wadded through every sense. It was still more convenient when Nene's shoulders finally hit the wall with her breath's subdued little _whump_.

A gasp.

Another.

Priss simply _mauling_ her. Down, down, down; head not quite _thrown_ back with at least the presence of mind not to fling her skull, cushioned with that luscious magenta in pillowy abundance or not, against the cold _whatever_... Painted concrete, maybe- maybe bare stone or... Fuck it.

What did it matter?

Eyes melting with their needless sight; Priss' lips boiling on her throat, sliding down, down, down. Fingers settling on Nene's belly, negotiating the shirt's still-unfastened fabric, almost translucent with sweat and hardly clothing her.

Scintillating hungers.

“Priss... Priss... I- I wanna... I wanna touch you; I wanna touch your hair-”

“You don't need to ask _permission_ , Nene. Don't be so _shy_.” The words _felt_ more than heard in their tremor down Nene's neck.

“O-oh, oh, oh, god... God...” A _nip_ ; teeth had become fangs, snapping at her collarbone's fine ridges. “Priss!”

Finally, finally, _knowing_ oh so Biblically those vagaries that had only been imagination's produce.

And Nene's imagination was artistic; it stitched together impossibilities, the möbius in its strange wheeling vicissitudes; it was a sculptor's, impassioned in its craving to know what _didn't_ exist in that mathematical reality.

And it could still never have captured this.

Dewy with sweat; perfumed with it, warm and wafting into her nostrils.

“W-wow, Priss... Priss... I...”

“Do you mind if I kiss you someplace else, Nene?” What?

What?

“A-ah, uh, I- I want you to kiss me _wherever_ you want.”

“Good. I might hold you to that.” Naughty, naughty, naughty. Nene probably should've waggled a finger; she was much more preoccupied with some demented boneless quavering while Priss' body contorted itself with muscular unselfconscious ease down, and down, and down.

While soft sticky lips _slid_ along Nene's belly. Tight and still dappled with a creamy lushness like a dolphin's skin.

“Priss!”

Silence answering her.

Sort of.

Not her heart.

Or the blood roaring through her ears like a jet turbine.

Or even the fabric being brushed away. Why should it have been so _meaningful_ when Priss' quick nimble fingers finally liberated the last button from its shackles? It wasn't like her bra was any _less_ decent than the bikini she minced around the beach in, much less when it was just pushed _off_ when that caramel-skinned Italian tourist decided she _desperately_ needed to know if Nene had hair that color _everywhere_.

But it was.

Wending around Nene's shoulders; penned against the wall. And now being dragged down, down, down.

“Priss, this's... This is better than any dream. I wannit. I wannit.” Almost _sobbing_. “Just... Take off my skirt-”

“Ah, _ah_. Who's giving the orders here?” Wuh?

“Um, _me_?”

“The bully gets the orders?” An alligator's smile quirked up at Nene.

“ _Fiiiiine_.” It would've been a more persuasive sulk if there hadn't been surfing on a manic giggle. Oh, well.

“ _Good_ girl. Look at these legs.” Adoring them now with her fingers' quick bite.

“P-Priss-”

“I _love_ beautiful legs.”

“Y-you're at the right club, then, right?” Oh, it was lame. Lamer than a revenant quadruple-amputee Clydesdale. Who cared? “Ngn... P-Priss...” Fingers just _intuitively_ slipping up to the meridian between flesh and fabric.

“You're really wearing stockings. I'm so happy. I'd _hate_ to have to ruin your pantyhose-”

“Who'd fucking _care_?”

“Still. It's even sexier. You have the softest thighs. They're fucking incredible.” Nene's belly dimmed Priss' mumble to little more than a formless mealy groan. What did it matter?

“Priss, Priss, I... Y-you can just... Take my skirt off-”

“I wanna push it up; not take it off-”

“You're gonna wreck it!”

“So? Didn't you say you didn't care?”

Fuck.

“Guess so.” So it was. Pulled up, up, up, _hiked_ like a beginner's foothill _up_ , up, up, and... Well, Nene _had_ worn panties. Ostensibly.

A trivial little patch and a thong that vanished into her ass' luscious cleft.

“ _Whoa_. Look at _this_. You... You're just _divine_ , y'know, Nene? And I can _tell_ you don't like boys.” Not _smelling_ her; _**scenting**_ her. Snorting her like NovaCoke. Dragging it deep; staining her nose with Nene. “You're so _sweet_.

“Delicious. Fuck. Don't you love pussy?”

“Uh- _huuuuh_.” Who didn't?

Who _couldn't_?

What degenerate would reject _pussy_? It would be anyone waving away water or fine champagne or... Or _breath_.

Priss' tongue a quick _snap_ at flesh that had begun to overtake fabric; sodden, sopping, lips inflamed and almost twisting themselves out through the appropriately _pink_ skein as fragile as damp rice paper.

“Priss!” Nene's voice a _screech_. “Priss, Priss, Priss, oh, god, Priss, Priss, you're...” Everything like restraint was just cast off.

One little _lap_ became a kiss.

And that kiss became deliciously west of Germany and east of Spain. Panties tugged down and almost _torn_ off and who the hell cared? Tongue a succulent fuchsia stripe dragged down that giddy smile in delicious softness.

A lucullan feast.

A quick stab.

A stroke.

Flailing now; quickly, quickly, a tease without anything that really merited the word. A tease was a promise, maybe, but it was something withheld and brutally cruel. This was just to _torment_. The tongue's peak a quick flutter and flicker. Priss' long fingers splaying her apart; a coolness displaced with breath hotter than any inferno.

Orgasm had already come. It wasn't a discreet stalking predator. It was a ravening occupation; rape and pillage and madness and there was the soul's bonfire, everything just tossed into the blaze. Everything.

Everything.

Everything must go.

Everything _went_.

Again, again, gouging through every nerve. Trembling; thighs setting to iron and melting down again and gathering anew. Toes straining against the heels' cinching patent leather.

A long tortured scream mantling up from her lips.

“P-Priss!” Priss' mouth had just _swallowed_ her now; tongue swiping, sweeping, wheeling and pivoting and drifting up and plunging back down. A _stab_ into that succulent dark and unknowable place.

However often she'd stared at it, at those roseate concentricities, well, how could she really _know_ them?

Priss did.

Again.

And again.

Nene's brow sodden with sweat that poured down in huge sloppy currents. Drowsy points settled like tears in her lashes.

“Priss, it's... I'm gonna...” And what did it matter? _This_ was Priss' meal; a slackened leg dragged up, long and willowy and with her knee's crook settling on Priss' sinewy shoulder. Satiny sweat-lucent fabric; a heel traced a boneless antic flicker back and forth and left and right and Priss wasn't only eating but _invading_.

Deeper, and deeper, and deeper. Tongue lunging up up up through those taut coils; lips _scalding_ on what felt like nothing more than just one concentrated point of electricity that sure as hell wasn't a dead numb fulgurite but just living and perpetual. A pearl. Smeared with Nene and drunk deep.

“Priss... Priss...” And now, now, Priss' fingers. Tongue dragged out and displaced with one, and then two, and... And Priss' fingers were definitely larger than Nene's. Splayed, _spreading_ her apart.

“I- I'm going crazy. Oh, god. Oh, god.” Nene's palms clapped on her cheeks; her glasses had begun to mist with the sweat, with the living Gehenna that'd become her body. “I can't... I wanna... I'm...”

And _stroked_.

Stirred.

Priss' fingers finding _it_.

She knew it, of course.

Nene knew.

She'd committed it to that perfect somatic wisdom. But what did that matter if no one else _could_? And Priss found it. Again and again and again and with lips drowning with Nene's wet sweet delectation twisted into a wild and ferocious smile.

She _knew_ she'd found it.

Stroked and adored and kneaded. Again and again and again and it was a hot tormented _yelp_ from Nene's lips while Priss' mouth suctioned like some demented carnal sea creature around her and there was only a plea for more, more, _more_.

Strength not just failing but held back by at least fifteen grades.

Bowing over Priss; savoring her hair's satiny lushness against her bare belly.

“I can't... I'm gonna... I'm... I'm gonna get you all messy!” It was childish, fine, fine, but who cared?

Clearly not Priss.

Nene _felt_ it.

The answer.

Thrumming through her.

 _Good_.

Fingers stirred her. Two; squelching and splashing through what was probably a reasonable likeness of the Pacific ocean cradled between Nene's thighs. And _it_ was coming. Not just, well, _coming_.

Not orgasm.

A screaming warbling wailing howling shrieking inarticulate sexual explosion.

And it scrawled through every nerve; condensing there, pouring back from numbing fingers and toes that'd been denuded of every bit of strength with her ankles and her knees and her thighs and her arms and elbows and...

Everything.

Concentrating.

 _Sprouting_ up.

“I- I'm- I'm...” Jaws clattering together; teeth chattering with a sudden chill that was a heat so huge that it inverted every sense's simple understanding.

Spraying up; it was an anointment, those heavy ropey threads deliciously greasy, swept up up up along Priss' cheeks, her brow matted with it, thickened and almost black in her hair.

Nene's squall had whirled around itself, fastened its jaws around its own tail, and _imploded_.

Crumpled down like a subterranean nuclear blast.

Sagging.

Shuddering.

A chill hotter than an atomic bomb's corona stitched into her every inch.

“Priss, that... I'm... That's _so_ fuckin' amazing, and...”

“You ever cream like that before, Nene?” With Priss just... Standing. Arms still wound 'round Nene's waist in its trim gradation from lush hips to her breasts' heavy fullness.

“I- I have, but, um, I mean... Not- not _a lot_. And _like_ that; b-but never _that_ hard. Just... That was the most fuckin' incredible, too. Your fingers. Y-y-your tongue. Oh, fuck, your tongue, and- and I've always had fantasies about your fingers and I even bought latex gloves like _yours_ -”

“Y'don't say?” Madness behind Nene's glasses.

In Priss' eyes.

“Uh- _huh_. I just... I wanna... I wanna eat _you_ , too-”

“Who said you had a choice?” Gravity was something that happened to other people.

Priss wasn't only _strong_ in the prosaic sense.

It was incredible. Nene just wrenched from her feet after having long since been swept off them; cradled against Priss' plush and pillowy prow.

“W-whoa.” And without even the tiniest inkling that this was a strain, a challenge, an _anything_ but just a weightless nothing for Priss. And not being eased off to the princessly bed, either. The table.

“P-Priss-”

“What? You don't want to be _too_ dewy and frilly and cliché, right? I wanna bully you s'more.”

“ _Please_.” Not even _sat_ on the table; set across it, Nene's legs tracing long graceful arcs, heels stabbed down onto the heavy wood. The bottle snapped up; fingers sodden with pussy brushed over Nene's mouth, pulling open her lips.

“Pr-”

 _Filled_ with the treacly liquor.

“I don't want to get you _drunk_ ; I've just always wanted to do this-”

“G-get me drunk. I don't care. I'm already totally fucked up with _this_. Do me; do _anything_ you want to me. I'm serious.” Cooing and giddy and, well, maybe the word was _psychotic_. Eyes and the _words_ both stabbed into Priss. Twisting through her gut.

“Fuck-”

“Fuck _me_. Fuck _me_. Fuck _me_. I wannit!”

It was all reason's death, of course.

A bestial thing lunging up from her jaws.

That lucid fantastical taper-light, that ridiculous thing called sanity, comfortably doused by a few gallons of lust.

Glorious.

That was the only word that trembling palsied fingers found.

“Don't be surprised, all right?”

“B-by _what_? That you're even _hotter_ naked than you are clothed? L-like that's possible-”

“Ngn... I just don't want you to be, ah, startled, 'kay?”

“'kay.” Dreamy and ridiculous. Priss' fingers tugging away the almost perfunctory top.

And it was true.

Wow.

She _was_ more incredible naked than clothed. The gloves still smeared in a lambent black slick on her fingers, reaching along her wiry arms. Tits trembling, plump, elegantly upturned; nipples almost painfully puckered, drawn tight to the skin, areolae tawny like Nene's.

And larger.

 _Huger_.

Delicious.

Palms dragged down her belly, oh so patiently. The skirt unfastened and falling, falling, falling, and...

Nene's head cocked first to the right, and then the left, an inquisitive puppy.

“Whazzat?” How fuckin' wasted _was_ she?

'cause she'd...

There'd been some little, well, some _presence_. A silhouette stabbing up through it.

And now it more than _stabbed_.

“What does it look like, Nene?” It, well...

“Looks like a cock. I mean, like, a _really_ big cock.” And it was. Swollen; hungry; a glabrous smooth plump lance lunging up from where her clitoris _should_ have been. Well, maybe it just _was_ that, or...

Did it matter?

It was beautiful.

“Well, if it _looks_ like a cock-”

“And quacks like a cock?”

“Or at least comes like one.” Not a touch; Priss' long lavish fingers fanned around it, straining tight the soft hairless skin. Perfectly bare. It didn't only _prick_ up. It rose; stabbed out, cranked with that trembling hunger almost to Priss' belly. A beautifully flared head, broad and almost helmeted; a lengthy stalk.

“D-does it?”

“Uh- _huh_.”

“Sweet.”

“I've heard it before.” Priss' smile _dark_ , wicked, almost gloating. “Have you ever had one before? You've never been with a boy-”

“Uh-uh. Never. I mean, y'know, _plastic_ ones before. Or rubber or- or silicone or whatever they are. But never that. It looks... Looks really _hot_.” The warmth it exuded was something incredible. Flushed like Nene's cheeks. “Whoa.

“It looks _really_ big, too.”

“The biggest you've had?”

“Um, _no_. Is that a problem?” The eyes were vulpine, playful, a sidelong little flicker.

“Not really. I just wonder if you've got a gag reflex.”

“Why not find out?”

Time and space distorted, distended, tortured into obedience.

Nene was still on her back.

But just being dragged over the table; Priss' fingers implacable, merciless, twisted in hair like the peonies broken down to their most elemental essence and gracefully knotted into a fabric finer than any silk ever savored and spun into glimmering tendrils.

Tugging, straining, _dragging_ ; a giddy coo with pain's most delirious subdued shock when Nene's scalp finally protested after a long interval of nothing but some sumptuous slack.

“Nya!”

Palm on her cheek; cradling, adoring.

Savoring the universe inverted, twisted on its axis, peering up at Priss; adoring the flesh that flowered out, a long succulent stamen swept along a faint arc, shallower than Priss' back in its delicious smooth bow.

A relentless throbbing heat clapped against Nene's cheek.

Slapped at the right; at the left.

“Nya! Now you're just being mean-”

“Good. Good. F-fuck, your skin feels like greased silk-”

“How d'ya think my mouth will feel?” Dreamy; not drowsy but only bleary, crazed, Nene's jaws slackening, tongue darting out to _taste_ it. A few dewy beads had shivered down its belly from the plump full lips that'd peeled apart under their own swollen hunger.

Red.

Pleading.

“W-wow, so you've got both, Priss?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“I'm kinda thinkin' how nice it is that I can give _those_ lips a kiss while I kiss somethin' else.” That was probably enough.

More than enough.

Yes.

That was a threshold crossed.

Trespassed.

Broken.

Torn apart and the barriers ground under countless clomping jackboots and those were probably tanks' treads, also.

Nene's lips tasted; the bloated peak brushed over the lower lip that'd become the upper, the upper that'd become the lower. Trembling with it.

Fabric-dimpled thighs quivered; muscle reared up into heavy relief, strength's thick sure cables. Heels an uneasy stab at the floor.

Sapphic poetries recited with those delectable soft caresses.

A kiss. Slowly, slowly, _oh so slowly_ ; not with patience but only just with that luscious unselfish selfishness or maybe selfish unselfishness but _absolutely_ with Nene's mouth ploddingly _wrapped_ around that legitimately obscene flesh twisted down from Priss' luscious hungry pussy.

Silenced after one jubilant little _Oooh, I_ _ **am**_ _hungry, Priss; thanks for the meal._

Was that her voice?

The universe swam with a pirouetting electric motes. She'd never tasted _this_. Still stained with the juicy rivulets slipping down from Priss' pussy... Priss' pussy... Priss' pussy... She couldn't _say_ it thrice at _any_ speed, but, well, there was still just that dazed thought.

The understanding that she was _admiring_ it.

Staring at it.

 _Leering_ at it. It'd become her universe, with that hairless swollen trunk twisted down into her mouth. Suckled; a first languid lingering experiment. It wasn't one of the plastic fantastic delectations that could still be wired into the flesh. This _was_ real skin. Couldn't just grate at it with teeth that'd become a fox's fangs and expect a program to warp even _that_ into a perfectly polarized bliss.

It demanded _gentleness_.

Whatever _that_ was, well, Priss wasn't complaining. A texture that no manufacturing could ever approximate. Blood raced through its bulk; to and fro and up and down and became its twitches and tremors; a quick _snap_ against Nene's teeth; a shiver against her palate in its velvet heat. Priss' eyes crazed.

Fingers swept slowly, with something almost _patient_ , through Nene's hair, drooping down in sweat-flattened effusion, a long collapsing column, rosaceous and dizzyingly soft, even through the gloves.

“N-Nene, Nene...” Heavy, hot. Guttural.

 _This_ was the reality. Not fantasy's distant gnawing hungers; not the act of patting her belly to relieve a wretched fat-camp famishment. This was a legitimate feast. It was Priss'... Well, a _bit_ of Priss that imagination had supplied in more than a few, even if expectation sure as hell hadn't. Cock.

Priss'. Cock.

Flaring more, more. The head swollen against her throat now; her lips cradled it.

_Pwiss's'fuggindewiciousgottafugmemoooo!_

“W-wha-”

“Don't take it _out_!” _That_ was the only clarification needed for another long slow pump. Deeper, deeper...

“N-Nene, is your throat really okay-”

_Mmmm!_

A hard _screech_ that capered with an electrified sword-dance through every fucking nerve.

Its message was probably something profound.

Or maybe, _You take it out and you'll lose it if you try to put it **back**!_

So she didn't. Deeper, and deeper, and deeper. The first febrile _snap_ through everything the instant its hot blunt bulk brushed Nene's throat. She could _feel_ it. She'd probably be feigning laryngitis for weeks.

It was... Was _incredible_ . Nothing of the better-living-through-chemistry dildos' _hardness_. Soft; yielding; and still with a core like scalding iron. Daggering deep now and, well, blood had probably puddled in her head, but who cared?

And for Priss' eyes, there was a feast appropriately sprawled across the table. Long long long legs swept along a delicious lean sinuation; spine arching; neck twisting; Nene's candied lips _swollen_ with the cock that stuffed her cheeks. Luscious tits settling with a weight that accentuated they weren't only all-natural but _organic_ ; no tampering beyond adulthood's serendipitous hormones.

And Priss' fell heavily, also, to her bare belly.

“Nene, you're... I... I want to be gentle with you, but you're- you're really makin' it difficult here-”

“Who wants _gentle_ , dammit?! I told you I wanted you to _bully_ me. That means _bully **me**_. Not- not just be all... All indecisive.” Yeah, now she was _berating_ the planet's most enchanting beauty, her fucking _heroine_ , to fuck her mouth.

It wasn't a dream at all.

No dream could be that perfect.

Nene's voice thick and gurgling with the spittle she'd definitely learned gathered in its heavy ropey effusion with _this_ ; even more than with the dildo.

“D-d'ya think I've never been throatfucked before? This's- I fucking _love_ it. Here. Here. If _you're_ gonna be- be a... A sissy bully, then lemme show you.” A long twist, a lissome perfection in a profoundly athletic twist, rolling onto her belly's tight flat plane. Straining out, neck arching, fingers snatching up Priss' cock.

It was already swaddled in that viscous thick spit; tugged closer, closer. Priss' hips as obedient as every other inch.

“N-Nene-”

“Let me _show_ you just how committed a fan I am. D-do you do this a lot? Do, um, do you have groupies or whatever?” What did it matter? It was a studied allure; and totally unselfconscious. Nene's hand rising up through her hair's heavy abundance, brushing its slick sheet away from a cheek, tongue rolling out to flicker over the cock's dark peak. Malachite eyes swiveled up, a battery of artillery for what little of that restraint's castellation survived the first barrage; glazed, _ravening_.

“I- I don't, uh, I don't really have groupies-”

“Yeah, _right_. You must do this _every_ night-”

“M-maybe. But not just 'cause I'm a musician.”

“Duh. It's 'cause you're fucking _gorgeous_. Lemme show you. This- this _cock_. It's so pretty. It's about the only reason I'd think about dating a boy for, but, um, _ta-dah_ , it's here. For me.” _A_ kiss became _kisses_ ; feathery and flickering over its fullest length. It _was_ a long journey. “It's really, _really_ nice.” Settling down on Priss' hips.

And rising up again.

“So, are you gonna fuck my mouth?” That wasn't exactly a question that _words_ could answer. “Pull my hair and just _pound_ me.”

“If you're sure-”

“Nah. That's just a _joke_.” Knock-knock. Who's there? Fuck my mouth... Who? “Of course I'm sure, Priss. Pleeeease.” Jaws followed lips, tumbling open. Mouth wet and already thickened with spittle.

And something more now.

 _Impaling_ Nene. In a long deft stroke, plunging to the root. And Nene's tongue flitting out to swipe at _that_ . Priss' pussy; that plush succulent seam. Savoring the honeyed rich affirmation of exactly how indifferent _she_ was to boys, also.

Dragged out and rearing into Nene again.

And again.

Quickening. Priss' fingers gorging themselves on the fleshly silhouette straining through Nene's neck and vanishing once more; again, and again, and again. Not _indifferent_ to the wet little coughs but just undeterred.

Nene spurring her on, more, and more, and more, 'til it just _sat_ there for a moment, Nene's tongue pinned with flesh and her lips' generous soft fullness against _that_. Savoring; adoring.

A long tortured breath sputtering with that hot-lead saliva from Nene's nostrils.

Priss' knees a standing-wave convulsion.

Slipped out again; fingers steepled under Nene's chin.

“You're _so_ close, aren't ya?” It was incredible, that deep ragged purr tumbling through Nene's ears. Doubly so that it was _her_ own voice.

“H-you... You can tell, huh?” Priss' eyes manic. Tumbling down, down, down; dragged deeper than the simple geography, the banal geometry.

Nene was a bewitching abyss.

“Uh- _huh_. I'm just wondering why you're _stopping_.”

“B-because... Because no one's ever let me do this before-”

“An' you think it's just gonna be _over_ , and then poor little Nene will scarper away, _scandalized_ because you did _just_ what she asked-”

“K-kinda.”

“Geeze, you're _such_ a pussy-”

“Hey! Which one of us is the bully here?”

“I want Priss' _cum_ in my belly; I want enough of it to get knocked up just from _swallowing_.”

“Y-you can't, right?”

Nene's eyes tracing a long wheeling whorl that would probably have found itself in low-earth orbit without being rooted to their nerves.

“I've got the _whole_ treatment. Oooh, is that it? Can, um, y'know, you not... Get it up right after?”

“N-no, it's not that. I...” Priss' voice almost _mute_. Achingly tiny. _I don't have a refractory period-_

“Fuckin' _awesome_. Let's do it, then. If this's a dream, then- then I wanna, ah, milk all I can from it. And if it's not?”

“Right. Right.” Delirious. “Your- your mouth is so amazing. I mean... I- I just want to... To fuck it all day.” _That_ was not shy.

It was a sexual psychosis coalescing. And who cared? Nene was definitely the sensibility _now_ to throw herself naked and cavorting into the storm.

Priss' fingers tangled with that delirious groaning latex in her hair.

“Yeah. Yeah. Oh, this's- this's what I've been _waiting_ for. For so long.” More, more, more.

 _Impalement_ . One huge sputtering pump, and then a second, and a third, and it was _wicked_ , Nene's lips tightened in a wet glossed rubbery ring around her and the tongue's slick swipe was the _last_ for her patience.

Thunder tolling between Priss' ears.

And _Nene_ felt it.

A sudden urgent throb. Swelling even more, more, more, inexpressibly fucking _hard_ and no longer troubled with obeying her throat's clenching wet shape beyond the simple need not to snap like a fucking popsicle stick in a hydraulic press.

A strangled scream from Priss' lips.

 _Nothing_ from Nene's but a faint little sigh. Eyes inflamed and demented and _brilliant_ with the hunger that was a starving man's stare settling on the words _all-you-can-eat_. It was what Priss'd offered, wasn't it? Her teeth grazed with its bulk flaring up, up, up, swollen and obscene and about a micrometer from denying its own simple boundaries.

It didn't matter. Priss' fingers less than patient _now_ ; Nene's lips slapped against her pussy's sodden hungry smile and _Nene_ 's was huger still, crazed and razor-edged and sloshed with sexual psychosis; thighs ground together, a pathetic little parody of what had been craved beyond any language's dimensions.

Yes.

 _Yes_.

That was the word. And it, well, it came. Explosive. The first less a shot and more a concentrated explosion; spurting out, _hammering_ like hard rain at Nene's throat. And more, and more, and more, gushing, pulsating, a firehose mistakenly tethered to a thermonuclear-powered pump conceived to launch spacecraft into high orbit.

Cheeks filling with _it_.

With that rich sticky essence. Royal icing with a bit of mastic; tacky on her teeth and absolutely. Fucking. _Delectable_ . Not only that it was Priss' but because it just _was_. Not something to stain your coffee every morning but just to pound down by the gallon with your dessert.

And so _wholesome_.

Swallowed down and still with enough straining past her lips that the seal was _popped_ with a ragged hot cough, gelid pearls pattering on the table, coiling over Nene's jaw.

“W-whoa. Holy _shit_.” And still enough gathered in Nene's mouth that it could be upturned, a lovely puddle swept with a tongue that looked like nothing more than a coral-stained shark's fin brushing back and forth before the level fell.

A _gulp_.

“That's _so_ delicious, Priss. Maybe you should just empty that bottle and give _me_ something for later, y'know?” Nene's hand groping lazily at the liqueur; dragged with a sullen rattle across the table. “I'm- I think I'm totally drunk with _you_ , y'know, Priss?”

A huge gasp snapped back.

Priss liberating it from Nene's fingers without a word. It was finished _now_ after Priss' almost incredulous swallow.

“What? You don't do this with _all_ the girls, Priss?”

“F-fuck, no, I don't.”

“Damn. Kinda wish you did. It's a little sexy to think about joining _so_ many sexy chicks wrapped around _that_. But I don't mind being one of the special ones.” Fingertips brushed over Priss' belly, climbing up and settling down. “But I want you to be _rough_.

“Remember?”

“Yeah. Oh, I remember.” And so it was.

Not content with the mattress' frilly _convention_. Nene already upright now on her knees; an achingly graceful posture, something quintessential, a priestess' elegances, legs swung now beside her and a palm planted on the heavy wood.

And Priss' fingers had fallen on Nene's thighs; savoring the right, the left, their delicious and less than indivisible perfection. Luscious; creamy tight skin enameled with sweat-sodden fabric whose brilliance almost scarred her eyes.

“You're so fucking beautiful, Nene.”

“The _prettiest_?”

“Uh-huh.” Nene's smile a ruby bow.

“Then show, Priss. Show me. Show _meeee_!” Wasn't that enough? A kiss.

More than a kiss. Long, lingering, _ferocious_ ; crushed to Nene and Nene to her and with an absolute cohesion in this.

The möbius. Yes. Without beginning; without end; _one_ body conjoined with the hips' collision. Nene's thighs dragged apart; fingers bit into juicy skin, oiled silk with sweat, with desire spilling down down down from lips that spoke more eloquently than anything else.

Priss so fucking _close_.

“Yeah. Yeah.” The head, its full straining swollen _implacable_ girth, ground against Nene; once, and again, and again, a dreamy sweet slickness against Priss. “O-oh, _**fuck**_!” Nene's head thrown back. “I'm coming just from that.

“F-from you teasing my pussy. But don't just _tease_ me-”

“I'm not even trying.” Priss' voice distant, a little dim, idiotic. Addled with _this_. With Nene's high high heels planted on the table and her legs swept along an absolutely irresistible geometry. Bowing back; spine twisting and chest thrown out, peachy nipples flung up with a plea for a kiss, a touch, _anything_. And Priss' hands were occupied with something a little more urgent.

“Yeah!” Stabbing into Nene's thighs; and now rising up, up, tangled around Priss' hips. _Dragging_ Nene against her, and lunging against Nene, and it was there.

Finally.

Not the patient slow shallow pumps that deepened more, and more, and more.

Impaling Nene in one _plunge_ like falling through a portal into another universe. Priss' eyes huge and fevered and Nene's seeing absolutely nothing but _this_ ; and still with an awareness of that perfection between her thighs.

 _Buried_ in her.

Immersed.

 _Drowning_.

“N-Nene-”

“Is it nice?” Cooing and singsong and _evil_.

“N-nice? Nice? It's fuckin' incredible. You're... You're so... S-so goddamned...” Flinty whisper rearing up to a near- _squeal_.

“Yeeeeessss?” If Priss' strength lay in her sharply-chiseled abdomen and pirouetting lean legs and sinewy arms, well, Nene's did a bit more _discreetly_ elsewhere. It was more than a squeeze. More than a clench. _Crushing_ around what was clearly more than a celebrity crush now. “What is it?”

“You're _breaking_ me!” Harder, harder, harder, steel cradled with scalding oiled velvet. “It's so fucking incredible.” It might have been an invitation to the words _traumatic amputation_ , but who cared?

It'd be a lovely anecdote for the tabloids.

_Miz Asagari, can you tell us about the rumors that some pink-haired demoness tore off your luscious girlcock with her pelvic floor muscles?_

Nene had become a writhing animate ribbon with Priss; skin richer and lovelier than _any_ peony cradled her, pulled, tugged, adored; kneaded and gnashed and _ate_.

“F-fuck, Nene-”

“You're going to _already_?”

“Maybe-”

“Then _do_ it! Pump me!” Crashing together. Even _with_ Nene's strength, well, Priss' was enough to _hammer_ through that embrace. Nene's eyes blasting out for a fleeting second like a terminal case of hypertension.

Enough for at least an amateur diagnosis.

Falling closed and a tremor slapping her lashes with a coked-out hummingbird's frenzy against scarlet-smeared cheeks.

“O-oh, oh, Priss, it's... C-coming... Coming...” Coming, yes.

And that was only _one_ tiny micron; one trivial thread in the huge tumbling endlessly protean tapestry.

_Yeah!_

Coming; _creaming_.

Heavy sweet smears brushed over Priss.

And _Priss_ was there.

It wasn't announced in language; it was just _there_ . Convulsions. Swelling and pulsating and finally just a dam _exploding_ with at least a million gallons or, well, maybe it was a few teaspoons, or tablespoons, or _perhaps_ a half-a-cup, but who fucking cared about the objectivities when the subjectivities were _incomparably_ lovelier?

So Nene gorged, and gorged, and gorged, _felt_ it rush and gush out, gooey and thick and pouring down her ass' taut skin in creamy effusion, greeted with a delirious little coo.

“O-oh, _fuck_! Don't stop!” Would there be _any_ peril?

 _Could_ there be?

Pinned under Priss now. Heavy tits swayed and rocked with a rush and tremor like a gelatin tide under a spastic overweight moon; _slapped_ at Nene's, nipples converging in a lightning stroke that tore itself out through every nerve, clenched her fingers and strained her toes.

“Priss! Priss! F-fuck!” Kissing; lips colliding and melting together and being dragged apart again. Hips ground against Nene's; the sumptuous _unity_ in flesh, in that lavish symmetry in kisses, above and beneath the waist.

Perfection.

Nene's legs sketching a quick stop-motion stripe around Priss' waist; heels daggered into the small of her back, pulled her nearer, nearer, a sublime harmony, daggering that relentless huge animal cock, adorable and lovely and _glorious_ and ferocious and feral, between lips that ran with frothing cum and lust and sputtered and spattered and _sighed_ ; liberated her to twist away for those intervals that were cruel only for a dimming like letting your eyes ease closed a millimeter while you stared blinkless at the sun.

Again, again, again.

Coming.

Going.

Seesawing with one another. Nene's and Priss' pussies slapping wet together; tits trembling and thrashing back and forth with what couldn't only be a simple tide. A fucking earthquake. Nene tumbling over on her belly again, heels stabbed down at the cold tiles that had gathered an exotic puddle that wouldn't tax even the blind's imagination.

“Yeah! Yeah!” Fingers on her right hip; another tangling in Nene's hair. A _pull_ fashioned an arc that could awe a longbow. Tits quavered; nipples charted a quick snapping stripe. Even _that_ was something incredible, the air's hot sodden caress blasting through her in crazed electric spurts.

“More! More! Fuck me! Fuck me even fucking _harder_! Fuck!” The universe had dissolved into _that_ single word.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“You have _no_ fuckin' idea how hard I'm coming, Priss! How many fucking _times_!” It wasn't quite true; the reality was that it was less discrete orgasms in a marching cadence and more a fucking _avalanche_ without interruption. And what did it matter? “I wish you could come _every_ time I do, Priss. Priss!” She had.

More than twice now. Cum burbling and slopping over the table. Vast hot plumes that scalded and entranced and _tingled_ and sluiced away, spent, unfulfilled potential that had served its only sensual worth to Nene.

A strange creamy oil for Priss' every pump.

Priss bowing over Nene now. Fingers creeping up, up, up; lovers' eyes, both of them, almost haunted with that delirium's simple _enormity_. Hair plastered in vast flattened smears over shoulders and cheeks.

Nene's a garden of cherry petals.

Priss' almost terracotta on _her_ skin.

“P-pull my cheeks. Put your fingers in my mouth, Priss. Fuck, I wish there could be two of you. I- I want _two_ Prisses to gangbang meee! Fuck me; fuck me so fucking _hard_ I'll die and there'll be a _huge_ scandal and you'll go to prison and then you can gangfuck some _other_ sexy chick!” It was idiotic; senseless.

And it was more than enough to tear another long howling orgasm from Priss' raw throat.

Splashing down across the table. Pooled under Nene's belly; smeared on her skin.

Priss could only oblige, couldn't she?

“I- I wanna suck your cock while you fuck me; I wanna be _trapped_ between two sexy Prisses. I want you to deepthroat me while you pump my pussy; I wanna get spit-roasted! I love that word! It's so dumb, and so fuckin' _sexy_ , right?” A manic stare thrown back over Nene's shoulder in its soft sloping geometries.

“F-fuck, yeah, Nene. I'd love that. I _wish_ I could do that.” And now, well, Nene's voice was nothing but a muffled gurgling _yeffukwuf_.

Whatever _that_ meant.

Gloved fingers stabbed between slack jaws; lips dewy and sumptuous and tongue coiling out to dribble drool in huge swarms over her chin. Wet.

Delirious.

Fingers brushed along cheeks like greased sateen. _Hooked_ into them; a pull at each and _that_ was enough to tear huge gouting squeals from Nene's chest.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Eyes vast and dewy with tears that splashed into the spittle and more than a bit of the cum's vestiges rushing across the table.

“Nene, this's... I'm gonna come again!” _Do it, obviously!_ That would have been the answer; there was nothing but just a frenzy, surrender without defeat, _crushing_ around Priss and the only sense was that she was not only being dimpled but tattooed with those shapes like some absolutely _unique_ orchid.

A _spurt_.

Flashing over what could only have been felt as _another_ brutally uncooperative pair of lips behind others. Recursive; layered.

“Fuck, I- I wish I could just jam it through your cervix like in porno.”

Nene, also.

“I'm... I can't fucking _take_ this anymore, Nene-”

“Fuck me _more_!” Liberated from Priss' fingers now. Sprawled over the table. And Priss' knees had become melting gelatin.

“I- I'm gonna die, Nene-”

“So _I'll_ go to prison. It looks like _this_ hasn't died, has it?” Priss' cock more resolute than any other muscle. Nene twisting around, splashing through that slick cum fragrant with some rarefied and impossibly luscious fruit. Adorning herself with it.

Priss' step more a stagger; Nene a predator, her smile defined in fangs' savage glint.

“I want _more_. Shouldn't you be kind to your fans? And I'm a _super-fan_ -”

“Y-you're wicked.” How could Priss refuse?

“I don't mind doing the work if you're a lil' tired, Priss.” _Tired_?

How long had she been on her feet?

Her mind wasn't _swimming_ ; it'd long since abandoned itself to drowning.

Hysteria sizzling through every inch.

Fucking incredible.

“Please. Please.” Priss settling back on the table. There _was_ a bed, wasn't there? Ah, but it was at least five or six seconds from them. With every _other_ time-consuming triviality, it could've been a thirty second interval.

 _Neither_ had the patience for that. Priss' shoulders settling on clammy sweat-smeared cum-splashed wood; Nene less mounting than _mantling_ her. Cum whipped to a satiny mousse poured out, gathering on Priss' belly; lips like amaranth _swallowed_ her. Dragged her deep.

Pulled Priss to the root in an instant. Nene's posture alone was enough to send another roaring flood through her. Electrifying.

Both of them at once.

Nene's fingers had become talons, clawing into Priss' chest; Priss' rising up, groaning latex twined around slender forearms.

Screaming.

The universe had melted down like Chernobyl into _that_ ; into nothing but the hoarse roaring _perfection_ in this. Every new quirk and pivot and twist and toss and finally, finally, finally just _dissolving_ in a last _not-with-a-bang-but-with-a-whimper_ gasp and Priss not quite deflating so much as just...

Faltering.

Not slipping from Nene; Nene's knees finally surrendering with a legitimately pitiful little squeak. Tits poured into tits; chests flattened, bled together, skin upon skin and Nene's lips clamoring, clutching at Priss'.

“Y-you're so beautiful, Priss. So beautiful-”

“W-what about you?” Breath and thought and sense had liquefied even _beyond_ memory's misty meaningless horizons.

They lay there, tangled together, legs and legs and arms and arms and fingers intertwined.

“You're incredible, Nene. I just... Ngn...” It was still _there_.

Pleading; between both of them.

“Still hungry, Priss?”

“I feel like I'm gonna _die_.”

“You sure?” How could anyone aspire to resist _that_? The enormous trembling eyes like polished kimberlite; the plump kiss-bruised lips; cheeks swarmed with wet magenta.

“Ngn... I- I mean, well...”

“Aren't you gonna give your audience the show they _deserve_?”

“How about another private performance just for you, Nene? Maybe, uh... Tomorrow-”

“I'll take an encore right now, if you don't mind.” She was evil personified, of course. Hips rising up only to _slam_ down again. “But I can't complain about tomorrow, either.”

 


End file.
